


Bad Things With You

by hollycomb



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 15:16:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 32,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollycomb/pseuds/hollycomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Like hunting, doing God's work involves a lot of hanging around in motel rooms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this back in 2008, shortly after Castiel was introduced and before his vessel's backstory that was eventually introduced on the show.

Like hunting, doing God's work involves a lot of hanging around in motel rooms. Dean thought it would be not quite glamorous but more serious, the sort of thing that took place at least in legit hotel rooms, maybe on the thirty-first floor. Definitely there should be a balcony with a view. But then, he doesn't really believe he's doing God's work or that the invincible guy in the trench coat who now follows him everywhere is working for anyone but himself. That doesn't mean he can get rid of him. And it's not like he has anyplace to be but in this guy's company, lately.  
  
It's been two months since he saw his brother. Bobby is not telling him everything, which has pissed Dean off enough to make him attempt to avoid calling him, though he still does when he's drinking. Bobby sounds worried about him, and Dean has spent the past two months trying to figure out why he hasn't yet confided in Bobby about the angel impersonator. Maybe because telling Sam didn't go so well.  
  
It's six o'clock in the evening and Dean has dried blood underneath his fingernails. He's sitting on the end of a saggy queen sized bed and trying to figure out if it's his or someone else's. He rubs the bridge of his nose and moans in the general direction of the room's sliding glass doors. The angel -- not that he's an angel, but Dean has come to refer to him as such and can't seem to stop -- is puttering around behind him, and Dean is always afraid to find out what he's up to. He turns around anyway, because it's getting late and he's hungry and there's nothing worse than eating alone in a shithole diner. Nothing against shithole diners, which actually he loves, but it's a whole different ball game without company, even if your company is an all-powerful liar who for some reason is on your side.  
  
The angel -- Castiel, fine -- is standing in the bathroom doorway and wiping at his belt with a cheap motel washcloth. The washcloth is stained pink, and Dean thinks the blood under his nails is probably not his. Lately it hasn't been.  
  
"Can't you like, just --" Dean holds up his hands, assumes Castiel will know what he's talking about. He gets the usual blank stare in return. "Can't you like, do magic to get the bloodstains out? I'm just saying."  
  
Castiel ignores him and goes back to his cleaning. Dean stares at him with persistent disbelief. His life has always been strange, but this is ridiculous. His brother has run off with a demon, insisting she's good, and Dean is stuck with this clown, who also insists that he's good. There's a whole lot of good going around, and Dean isn't sold on any of it.  
  
"My energy is better spent on other things," Castiel explains belatedly. Dean has already put the television on, though it never works right when Castiel is in the room. It blinks and fizzles and sometimes picks up other frequencies that he thinks might be real people having conversations somewhere.  
  
"I haven't seen you break a sweat yet," Dean says, flipping channels.  
  
"Maintaining this milder form requires concentration," Castiel says. He goes into the bathroom, and Dean hears water running. He had to introduce the almighty angel to the wonders of showering a full week after they hit the road together. Castiel forgets, a lot, that he has a human body now. It's really funny at times, really disturbing at others.  
  
He also has a tendency for walking around naked that Dean can't seem to break him of.  
  
"Whoa, whoa!" he says when Castiel walks dripping wet and starkers into the room, rubbing a towel through his borrowed hair.  
  
"Oh." He pulls the towel down and holds it awkwardly around his waist, as if he can't imagine why he should.  
  
"How many times do we have to do this?" Dean is still holding his forearm over his eyes, hates the way his heart races, cause what the fuck? "Isn't there a whole thing in the Bible about -- fig leaves? Or something?"  
  
"Maybe you should read the Bible." Castiel keeps suggesting this, and Dean keeps offering up the same response.  
  
"I'll read the Bible when you prove to me that you're an angel."  
  
"I don't know how to do that," Castiel says. "I can't make a man have faith."  
  
"It doesn't worry you just a little bit that the guy you picked doesn't believe you're an angel and is kinda wishy-washy on the whole God thing?"  
  
"I didn't pick you --"  
  
"I know, I know. God did. Fuck, can we have this conversation a few more times?"  
  
"I --"  
  
"That was sarcasm. Shut up. Okay. Let's go eat."  
  
Dean is rattled as they make their way out the door. Castiel doesn't have any clothes and he won't let Dean steal or spend the little money he has left on anything but food. He's wearing his single pair of pants and one of Dean's shirts, long-sleeved and purple-gray. Dean doesn't like it when he kind of looks like a normal guy, because he once barely seemed to notice Dean sticking Ruby's knife into his chest. He's not normal, not an angel, but Dean is starting to think he's not evil. Which is a dangerous thing to think. Which is exactly what he told Sam before they split apart.  
  
They sit in silence at a diner with college football games playing on two TVs behind the counter. The line cooks and waitresses are watching the games, reverently quiet, and there's no one in the place but a couple of weepy-looking teenage dorks and a guy with stringy hair who is eating mashed potatoes with intense concentration. Dean orders two beers and two Philly cheese steaks with fries. He'll drink both the beers himself, only after telling Castiel he should have some and watching with a smirk while he drinks from one. Castiel doesn't get why this is funny. It proves he's not an angel, and also that he's kind of slow. Any evil thing worth its salt would pretend it couldn't touch the stuff. At least, Dean would. If he were pretending to be good.  
  
"Eat," Dean says with his mouth full. Castiel is staring down at his plate with the usual disinterest. "I don't want that guy you're living in to starve."  
  
"This man will not be harmed, I've told you. He --"  
  
"Prayed for this, yeah, yeah. Well, who's to say he's not in there craving a cheese steak, huh? Go on, it's good."  
  
Castiel eats half a french fry, and Dean snorts. Whatever he is, he's a laugh riot when he tries to do human things. The first time he took a shower he just stood there under the water until Dean shouted directions through the bathroom door.  
  
"So what's next?" Dean asks, wiping salt on his jeans. "More of God's work to do in Iowa?"  
  
"You believe now that we're doing God's work?"  
  
"No, I was making fun of you. But as long as you keep telling me to kill demons, I'm game. Don't really see how this is different than what I was doing before, but hey. You did pull me out of hell. I kind of owe you one."  
  
Castiel blinks at him as if he's trying to process this. The pace of regular conversation is not his strong suit. Dean occasionally calls him "Clarence," but it always fails to get a rise out of him. He figures there's got to be some way to irritate or shock him enough to get him to drop the whole angel act and pin him to the wall with a wave of his hand.  
  
"I'll have to wait for God's guidance," he says, and Dean groans. This means they'll be between jobs for awhile. It's just as frustrating as it was when he and Sam were hunting and couldn't find any leads. There was always something bad out there, hurting people, whether they'd found it yet or not.  
  
Dean drinks three more beers and tries to explain the appeal of football. Castiel looks bored, which is nothing new.  
  
"I understand," he says in the midst of Dean's slurring commentary on cheerleaders. "It's war. It's a simulated war."  
  
"Well, yeah." Dean frowns and sits up. It's always annoying when he says something not stupid. Almost as annoying as when he saves Dean's life, which happens nearly every time they go after a demon. It doesn't make any sense: why can't Castiel just kill the demons himself? Why can't God just wipe them all out, and take the pedophiles and serial killers with them while he's at it? None of it makes any sense, never has, and Castiel doesn't know how to prove to Dean that he's an angel because there is nothing that could.  
  
Dean lets him drive the car back to the motel. It's terrifying, because he's an awful driver, but Dean would be worse, five beers in. He breathes a melodramatic sigh of relief when they reach the motel parking lot, and strokes the dashboard, promising his car that next time he'll be sober enough to drive her home himself. Castiel gives him a concerned sort of look that reminds him of Sam. Offended by this, Dean stumbles out of the car, cursing.  
  
He meant to take a shower before bed, but it turns out he's too drunk. He crawls under the blankets and sighs into them, deflates. Castiel is behind him on the other queen bed, lying on his back like a vampire, his hands folded over his stomach. Dean tries to stay awake, to watch him for signs of what he really is, something that will show up when he thinks Dean is not paying attention. But he knows, probably, that Dean is paying attention. He knows, Dean thinks, a lot more than he's letting on.  
  
The alcohol helps him pass out completely, but only until around two o'clock in the morning, when the dreams start. There is an almost conscious part of him that knows he hasn't actually been cast back to hell, that black dogs haven't ripped him apart while Castiel watched with sudden helplessness, but it's happened before and the memories make it real enough. Then there are things that aren't even memories, things his mind can't get close to because his brain would melt in his skull like Pamela's eyes. It's beyond repression, but the basic sentiment still comes through, until he's writhing in bed and screaming loud enough to rattle the glass on the sliding doors.  
  
Then someone is speaking Latin, and he thinks it's Sam. He opens his eyes and blinks away frantic tears to see Castiel looming over him like always. Not Sam, never Sam. Castiel stops speaking once Dean is awake. Dean is gulping air and trying to work up the energy to be suspicious, but Castiel's hand is on his forehead and this is reliably the best part of Dean's day. He can feel the memories of hell recede like a physical thing slipping through the wrinkles of his mind until they've retreated, gone back into hiding.  
  
"You were dreaming," Castiel says, because Dean has told him that it really freaks him the fuck out when he does this without speaking. Hot tears slide down both sides of Dean's face like the last of a possession leaving him, and he stares up at Castiel, who is still wearing his shirt. Once, Dean saw his wings. They were black, which is probably not a good sign. But when he's touching Dean's forehead like this, all of his suspicions seem irrelevant. He feels clean and saved and peaceful like a daydream. This would be proof enough that Castiel is an angel, except that whenever he does this Dean also gets the hardest throbbing erections he's ever had in his life, and, c'mon. Something's not right there.  
  
"God," Dean says, shuddering when Castiel takes his hand away, and then he laughs, because it's blasphemous, maybe, but what isn't these days. He rolls over, wanting -- _needing_ to jerk off, and tells himself it doesn't mean anything when he can't bring himself to do it just because there's a guy who claims to be an angel in the room. Even if it was just another guy, he couldn't. But the wanting doesn't stop, and it keeps him awake until dawn. He thinks about rolling over to see what Castiel is doing in the other bed. One of these days Dean will teach him how to sleep.  
  
*  
  
Dean wakes up early the next morning and wallows in his usual hungover, sexually frustrated misery. He's considered bedding waitresses, but he's too depressed about his brother bedding a demon to properly turn on the old charm. He's also afraid that Castiel will try to tell him that he can't, like he did when Dean last attempted to hustle pool. It had an odd effect on him. He's not entirely sure, afraid to find out, but he feels like he's forgotten how to do it since Castiel told him he couldn't.  
  
He takes a long shower and sulks, hoping that Castiel will claim to have been visited by God in the night so they'll at least have the distraction of hunting a demon. When he gets out he dries off and dresses in the fogged up bathroom like a proper gentleman. He wipes the mirror clear and checks out the hand print on his shoulder. Chicks will either dig it or be terrified of it, and he's reluctant to find out which.  
  
Castiel is sitting on a chair near the sliding glass doors when Dean walks back into the room, staring out at the cloudless morning like he's receiving testimony. Dean watches him hopefully, but when he turns around with his default blank look, Dean is pretty sure he was just checking out the scenery. He claims he's never been human before. Dean suspects that means he's never been on earth.  
  
"Any word about where to go next?" Dean figures he knows and just doles the information out a little at a time, mostly to drive Dean out of his mind, but hell if he can figure out where to go on his own anymore.  
  
"Not yet," Castiel says.  
  
"What's the hold up? Doesn't God know everything?"  
  
"He doesn't tell me everything, Dean."  
  
The sound of his name on Castiel's lips makes him uncomfortable, like seeing someone trip and feeling embarrassed on their behalf. He groans and and goes for the door, turns back when his hand is on the knob.  
  
"Uh," he says, impatient and obnoxious because he knows by now that he can get away with it. "Breakfast?"  
  
They go back to the same diner, and Dean tries to hit on the waitress, but she just looks at him like he's crazy. His pretty face isn't enough to get by on anymore. There is clearly something wrong with him, and every backwoods beauty can see it. Castiel watches him sympathetically, or maybe Dean is projecting, but at any rate the sight of his face is presently pissing Dean off. Still, just before waking, after finally drifting back to sleep, post-nightmares, post-Castiel's hand, Dean will have these dreams where Sam or Castiel or some combination of the two of him leaves him alone in a motel room, and it feels worse than dying did.  
  
So he tells himself that he's the one keeping Castiel around.  
  
"Tell me more about Rob," he says when they've finished their pancakes and coffee. Castiel cocks his head as if he's struggling to remember who Rob is, though he's currently inhabiting his body.  
  
"What do you want to know?"  
  
"Does he have a family?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Well?"  
  
"What do you mean, 'well?'"  
  
"I mean -- tell me about him! Kids, wife, what?"  
  
"Yes, he has those."  
  
Dean rolls his eyes. The angel -- not an angel, but -- always misses the point.  
  
"Why was he praying to be possessed by an angel if he had a family, people who need him?"  
  
"He was afraid he was betraying them."  
  
"Yeah, how?"  
  
"He's in love with a man."  
  
Dean makes an outraged face, and realizes too late that this wasn't some sort of dig at him. But, wait, what? He shakes his head, tips the last stale drop of coffee at the bottom of his cup into his mouth.  
  
"Is he in there now?" Dean asks.  
  
"Yes."  
  
Dean isn't sure where he was going with that. He throws cash on the table and stands up. Castiel stands up, too, like they're attached by strings. Dean wishes it wasn't a comfort. He thought he and Sam were attached, once, too.  
  
They're on the way to the car when Castiel stops and throws his arm out. His hand flattens against Dean's chest, and it's like a defibrillator, doesn't hurt but knocks against him just as hard. Dean forgets where he is for a minute, then comes back to himself, glaring.  
  
"Watch it," he says.  
  
"I know where we need to go next," Castiel says. He's looking at the horizon like he's witnessing a crime. Dean follows his line of vision but only sees a distant farm, giant bales of hay spaced out in a sun-bleached field.  
  
Dean does the driving. It doesn't feel as good as it did with Sam in the passenger seat. The car was like a sanctuary, then. Sometimes he asks Castiel why he doesn't just teleport to wherever they're going, to get a head start, but he never gets a clear answer. He thinks that Castiel might disappear without him. He has a narcissistic fantasy that he isn't real at all, that he just wanted out of hell bad enough to create someone who was strong enough to pull him out by his arms. He might also still be in hell and only dreaming this, though he doesn't think hell would let him get away with such vivid imaginings of bacon cheeseburgers and hot motel showers, and that thing that Castiel does with his hand.  
  
They arrive in Peoria at midnight. Castiel doesn't fill Dean in the way Sam did, with nerdish excitement and the laptop like a slide show presentation to back him up. He only points at things and tells Dean addresses, street names. Turn left, turn right. Dean would tell him to fuck off and demand explanations if he wasn't pretty sure that, whatever Castiel is, he did pull him out of hell with his bare hands. He's checked Castiel's palms for evidence, corresponding burn marks, but apparently it doesn't work that way. He knows he's got a debt to pay, and he keeps waiting for the catch, but everyone Castiel asks Dean to kill flashes black eyes like a dare.  
  
"There," Castiel says when they locate the possessed. It's a woman in her forties, unspectacular, tearing tickets at a movie theater.  
  
"She curses the slips of paper she hands out," Castiel says.  
  
"Those are called movie tickets, slick. What happens to the people she curses?"  
  
"Some of them, general misfortune. Sick relatives and ruined relationships and lost money. Others think they're a character in the movie they've just watched. They become insane. That's the demon's real goal. It finds such disorientation amusing."  
  
"Is there anything you find amusing?" Dean asks as they watch the possessed woman walk to her car. A blue Honda Civic, pretty modest for a demon.  
  
"How do you mean?" Castiel asks, and Dean rolls his eyes.  
  
They follow the demon back to its lair, the house of the woman it's possessed. As Dean parks the car on her street, something down the road catches his eye. It's a red sedan, too far away to identify the make or model. Castiel watches the demon let itself into the woman's house.  
  
"Now," he says, and for some reason Dean wants to argue, tell him they should wait, but he's not very good at being contrary when it's Castiel issuing orders. He's probably claimed in some horrific way by this probably horrific creature he can't identify, and he knows he's going to wake up to it eventually. Probably it's already too late, so he gets out of the car and opens the trunk. Castiel follows and watches him select his weapons, Ruby's knife and a thermos of holy water. Dean has thrown it on Castiel ten times now, keeps thinking that he's missed something. Castiel only blinks when he takes a face full of the stuff, drops of it hanging from his eyelashes.  
  
"Dean," someone says, and Dean is going to get furious for real at Castiel for imitating Sam's voice, then he shuts the trunk and sees Sam standing at the front of the car, Ruby slouched beside him like she's ready to get this over with.  
  
"Sam?" Dean smashes his eyes shut, pulls them back open, but Sam is still there. "What the -- what --"  
  
"The woman who lives in this house is possessed." Sam looks not unrecognizable but just different enough to make Dean's stomach hurt. The long hair is totally fruity on him. And something in his eyes has changed. It's not evil, but it's got nothing to do with Dean.  
  
"Yeah, we know," Dean says, pointing his thumb at Castiel. "We're about to smoke her."  
  
Sam is quiet for a moment, and Dean sees Ruby's jaw go tight with impatience. He turns back to Castiel, who is watching her like a falcon who has spotted a mole.  
  
"You should let us do it, Dean," Sam says, and Dean scoffs, hears himself say something awful before he actually does.  
  
"Right, so Ruby can recruit her into your demonic army? I'd just as soon kill her, but thanks for the offer."  
  
"You're oversimplifying," Ruby snaps.  
  
"We might at least be able to save the woman she's possessing," Sam says, holding a hand back as if to silence his evil girlfriend.  
  
"No," Castiel says. Dean turns, had forgotten he was there for a moment. "She cannot be saved."  
  
"That's a little ironic, coming from you," Sam says, his eyes the two judgmental slits that Dean walked out on.  
  
"Just --" Dean starts to say, but he doesn't know where to go from there. _Why can't we all just get along? Let's do this one together, gang?_  
  
"Please," Castiel says. "This cannot be interfered with."  
  
Sam looks at Dean as if to check and see if he's going to jump to his defense. Dean's mouth is working but words are a little hard to come by. He wants Sam back so bad, but not like this.  
  
"We're wasting time," Sam says, and he takes a step toward the house, but that's as far as he gets. He winces and falls against the car, bends at the waist. Ruby jerks once and collapses. Dean whirls on Castiel, ready to tear him apart.  
  
"Stop!" he shouts. "Did you kill her?" He leans down to Sam and holds his shoulder, but Sam jerks away.  
  
"Ruby!" Sam says, stumbling over to her. He puts two careful fingers against her throat, and Dean wants to puke, though he does hope she's alive, which doesn't make any sense.  
  
"Please go," Castiel says. Sam glares at him, then Dean.  
  
"This is wrong and you know it," Sam says as he lifts Ruby into his arms. She moans and rests her head against his chest, and the concern on Sam's face is enough to make Dean's eyes sting.  
  
"And following a demon's orders is right?" Dean says.  
  
"I'm not following orders!" Sam is backing up already, heading toward the red sedan at the end of the street.  
  
"Oh, right, excuse me, you've just assumed your rightful place in command, is that it?"  
  
Sam shakes his head, and Dean wants to think he sees the beginnings of regret on his face, but it's really too dark to tell.  
  
"You don't even know what he is!" Sam shouts before turning around. Dean watches him load Ruby into the car. He brushes her hair from her face as she slowly comes to.  
  
"What did you do to them?" Dean asks Castiel. He turns back when he gets no response, afraid for a moment that he's gone. Castiel pulls his eyes away from Sam and Ruby slowly, as if he's still waiting for a surprise attack.  
  
"I got rid of them," he says. "Now let's proceed."  
  
It's the first time Dean doesn't really need his help. The demon is inside watching home videos of her victims behaving like gladiators and pirates in the midst of their confused loved ones. She's laughing so uproariously that she doesn't notice Dean until he's standing right behind her. He slits her throat with Ruby's knife and wipes it on his jeans. Castiel is standing in the front doorway, streetlights glowing behind him.  
  
"Don't look at me like you feel sorry for me," Dean barks.  
  
"I wasn't," Castiel says, and there it is again, proof that he's not an angel. He's lying through his teeth.  
  
*  
  
They check into a motel at three o'clock in the morning, and Dean is still too angry to even go to a bar. He kicks a chair over just to see if Castiel will try to tell him something about wrath, but no luck. Castiel undresses, and hangs Rob's clothes up carefully.  
  
"What are you doing?" Dean asks. He's exhausted but fully awake, can't imagine sleeping. Castiel looks at him like he doesn't know how to handle the question. For a change.  
  
"You should rest," Castiel says.  
  
"Yeah, I should, sure, but what the fuck about you? Why don't you go out and do good works while I'm asleep? Why waste time lying there if you don't need to?"  
  
"I do good works while you're asleep."  
  
"Oh, yeah?" Dean is actually very bothered by the fact that Castiel might leave the room without him, but never mind. "Enlighten me."  
  
"I watch over you."  
  
Dean bucks backward like he's been slapped, makes a offended sound.  
  
"I don't need watching over," he says. "I'd rather you were out there, you know. Doing things. Making a difference."  
  
"I can only do what God asks of me."  
  
"Oh, really? Does _God_ ask you to drink beer when I tell you to?"  
  
"I can also do what you need, or want me to do, if it doesn't interfere with God's plan."  
  
"So if I told you to bark like a dog you'd do it?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Why? Would that interfere with God's plan?"  
  
Castiel smiles. "I can also refuse to do what you ask," he says. "As long as it doesn't interfere with God's plan."  
  
"So you don't want to bark like a dog, on a personal level, and therefore you can refuse?" Dean is grimacing at him, getting a headache.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"But you don't mind drinking beer?"  
  
Castiel thinks on this for a moment, as if he has to remember what beer is.  
  
"No."  
  
"Why should you want anything for yourself, if you were really an angel?" Dean walks close enough to almost jab a finger into his chest.  
  
"I don't know," Castiel says. "I did not design myself."  
  
"You're a liar," Dean says. Castiel is wearing an undershirt and a pair of Dean's boxer shorts with a worn-out waistband that hangs below his hipbones. Dean wants to grab him and be surrounded by that deceptively good feeling he gets when Castiel's hand is on his forehead, but he'd probably go up in flames if he tried.  
  
"You know in your heart that I am what I claim to be," Castiel says. He looks so sad and full of pity. Dean wants to punch him just as badly as he wants his hand on him like good drugs.  
  
"I don't know anything, except that my brother is --" He cuts himself off there, because he's going to lose his voice, and anyway he doesn't have a word for it yet. _Gone_ isn't quite right. _Changed_ sounds too final.  
  
"Your brother will find his way." Castiel keeps saying this. Dean keeps telling him to shut up. Tonight he doesn't even have the energy for that, so he crawls onto his bed and turns away from Castiel, watches the wall. He hears the usual sounds behind him: the shower, the towel scrubbing through his hair, the creak of the mattress. Sam once made all the same sounds in these same small rooms, only he said 'goodnight' before he turned the light out, if they weren't in a fight, and sometimes he mumbled it begrudgingly even if they were.  
  
Sleep sneaks up on him, and the nightmares flood back in. He remembers his organs ripped from his body and lying on the floor, pretty damn clearly because hell replayed it for him on loop, and he thinks that it's not the sort of image someone should survive with. He fights off more memories of hell, feels good about this, like he's making progress and maybe it's easier when he hasn't been drinking. His dreams shift around him in nonsensical patterns, flashes of sex as he attempts to make them lucid, but the best he can do is back in the car with Sam, their father in the backseat, all of them laughing. It's better than a sex dream, until Dean sees out of the corner of his eye that Sam's eyes are pure black, his smile twisted. He looks at his father in the rearview and sees him weeping, though when he turns to the backseat he's still laughing.  
  
Then Sam grabs his throat with a searing hot hand and calls him a hypocrite. He's back to normal now, but it hurts just as bad.  
  
" _Kill him_!" his father screams from the rearview mirror, while whoever is in the back seat laughs his head off.  
  
Dean wakes up gasping and grabbing at the darkness, and when he finds two arms reaching down for him he thinks someone is trying to strangle him. He's gropes at the bedside table, looking for his gun, but sinks back to the pillow when Castiel's hand cups his face.  
  
"Oh," he breathes as insane relief spreads through him. "It's you."  
  
"You were --"  
  
"Dreaming, I know. You don't have to say the same thing every time."  
  
He shuts his eyes again, nothing terrifying behind them now. His heart is still pounding. Castiel's hand moves on his face, fingers sliding into his hair. Dean swallows heavily as the touch spreads downward until it resonates in his lap, landing so firmly against his dick that he spreads his legs without thinking. He moans in embarrassed complaint, but Castiel doesn't seem to mind, or notice, never does. He draws his fingers back down the side of Dean's face, and Dean is fully hard already, telling himself in a constant, furious stream of thought: _don't hitch, don't arch, don't move_.  
  
"Do you know how fucking good that feels?" he huffs, trying to get angry about it.  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Are you doing it, _ahh_ , on purpose?" Castiel is stroking Dean under his chin with just his thumb, and it's like the smoothness of Dean's own skin under that touch is going to make him come in his pants.  
  
"I can stop if you want me to."  
  
"N-no," Dean stutters when he starts to pull away. "Don't stop."  
  
Castiel touches his face again, soft and cautious as if he's afraid he'll hurt him, which is probably a justified fear. Dean feels close to going over the edge of something, and it's not an orgasm, though that's imminent, too, because just the shift of his underwear over the head of his cock is driving him to the brink. Castiel's hand moves over his chest, stopping to make note of his wild heartbeat before continuing down to his stomach. Dean hisses when his hand slides up underneath his t-shirt, and again it's the feeling of his own skin under such reverent hands that makes his nerves pulse and his cock leak.  
  
" _God_ ," Dean moans, long and low. "What - _oh_ , I -- what are you?"  
  
"I've told you what I am."  
  
"That can't be, it can't be," Dean cries, his eyes filling up because the tiny motion of Castiel's thumb brushing over the hair that trails down to the top button of his jeans is going to kill him, and he's gonna let it happen.  
  
"You can doubt me," Castiel says. "I don't mind."  
  
His hand slides down over the shape of Dean's erection and then lower, between his legs. It's the sudden awareness of the damp heat of his balls through his jeans that sends Dean over the edge, and he comes so hard that he doesn't even realize he's sobbing, until it's too much, like his skin is being ripped off but it's good and he can't stand it. He blacks out, white light burning behind his eyelids.  
  
He reawakens almost immediately, Castiel touching him now only with a wet washcloth. Dean searches his face for guilt or evil or anything to indicate that what they just did rocked the fucking foundations of the earth, but he only looks vaguely concerned for Dean.  
  
"Are you alright?" he asks, patting sweat from Dean's hairline.  
  
Dean doesn't know what to say, exhales a series of painfully astonished breaths. Castiel wipes Dean's eyes and the corner of his mouth, and Dean looks down at his lap, cold and sticky now.  
  
"This is fucked up," he finally says.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Whatever just happened."  
  
"You need rest, Dean."  
  
"That wasn't rest! That was, like -- holy shit, I don't even know. Let me up, I'm gonna take a shower."  
  
Castiel stands, and Dean checks his lap before heading for the bathroom. There's no bulge, no come dripping down his leg. He looks perfectly unaffected, and Dean might have known. He shuts the bathroom door and tears his clothes off. He's freezing, and even when he makes the water in the shower burning hot, he's too conscious of the air touching his skin in every place where the water doesn't. He's shivering as soon as he gets out, and he curses as he dries himself off. He doesn't want to think about what just happened out in the room, and doesn't want to face Castiel, but the thought of getting under the blankets in his bed is too appealing.  
  
When he walks out into the motel room, Castiel is sitting on his own bed with his hands folded on his stomach. Dean avoids his eyes and tries to get his teeth to stop chattering.  
  
"Quit staring at me," Dean says as he climbs into bed. The thin motel sheets are freezing, and he pulls them up over his ear as he rolls onto his side.  
  
"Did I hurt you?" Castiel asks.  
  
"What? No, there's just -- something weird happens when you touch me. You know that."  
  
"Yes. I think I know why."  
  
Dean leans up onto an elbow and looks over at him. He's staring at the blank television screen, his hands flat on the mattress.  
  
"Okay," Dean says. "Why?"  
  
"You associate my touch with being pulled out of hell. It's a powerful sense memory. And I -- because I associate your safety and contentment with the will of God -- I, I --" His hands curl into fists. "It's a dangerous combination."  
  
Dean tucks the blankets in around his legs, wondering what the hell happened to his body temperature. He feels like he's lost a layer of skin.  
  
"D-dangerous," he says. "Yeah. S-s-so, just. We won't touch each other."  
  
Castiel looks at him, his hands uncurling on the mattress.  
  
"You're cold," he says.  
  
"I'm alright."  
  
"This has never happened to me before," Castiel says, as if to apologize.  
  
"No sh-sh-shit, Sh-Sherlock. Me either."  
  
"Dean," he says, and Dean is going to tell him, _I hate it when you say my name_ , because he feels like someone different when he's with Castiel, someone who didn't answer to that name when his brother shouted it across graveyards and through haunted cabins. He and Sam had a language that was only their names. They didn't need much else, once.  
  
But Dean can't tell him anything because he's shaking too hard. Castiel walks over to the bed and puts his hand on Dean's back. Even through the comforter, sheets, and the fabric of his shirt, his hand burns in the best way. Dean makes a grateful noise he can't stuff down, rolls onto his back.  
  
"Here," he says frantically. He grabs Castiel's hand and puts it against his neck. The warmth of him spreads through Dean's body, and he's afraid he'll go hard again, but it's different this time. He shuts his eyes, and shudders happily as his temperature rises.  
  
"If I do touch you," Castiel says, sliding his thumb across the line of Dean's jaw. "I'll have to be more restrained."  
  
"Yeah, whatever, just c'mere."  
  
Dean pulls Castiel down and under the blankets, puts his face against his chest and moans in sleepy satisfaction. He's still not an angel, definitely not. Some kind of sex demon, which maybe Dean earned after his stint in hell. Figures it'd possess a guy, but whatever, it works. Dean has never been much for clutching at girls in bed, usually just wants to roll over and get comfortable for sleep, but this feels like some combination of sliding into a jacuzzi and smoking crack, which he's actually never done, but supposedly it's instantly addictive, and he's pretty sure that's the way this works. The thought is pretty frightening, but he'll worry about it later.  
  
"What the fuck did you do to me?" he asks, clinging hard. Castiel smells like cherry tobacco, which is weird. Dean's father used to keep some in the glove compartment back in his pipe smoking days, and Dean would sneak whiffs of it when his Dad was picking up food. Growing up, it was his favorite scent, reminded him of the car and his dad letting him stay up late in the front seat, messing with the radio while Sammy slept in the back.  
  
"I hope you don't still expect me to believe you're an angel after all of this," Dean says as he's drifting off to sleep. Castiel lifts up the sleeve of Dean's t-shirt and peeks in at the hand print on his shoulder. Dean can feel his breath there as if he's going to kiss the scar.  
  
"The first time I tried to speak to you, I hurt you," Castiel says. "The second time, that shattering glass, I almost killed you. I don't always know what to do. Maybe I shouldn't have touched you at all. I'm sorry."  
  
"Don't worry about it," Dean says. "Just keep me warm until I fall asleep, okay?"  
  
In his long life of things that are hard to believe, saying this to an unidentified creature who has possessed a man named Rob tops the list.  
  
Regardless, Castiel carefully draws Dean's sleeve back over the scar, and puts one heavy hand on Dean's ear while he sleeps, as if to keep the bad things quiet.  
  
*  
  
Dean dreams about Rob, the man who prayed for Castiel to come to him. He sees his modest two bedroom house in Maine, his wife who is barely five feet tall and makes a living selling homemade herbal tea pouches, and the man he's in love with, a teller at the bank he manages. He's blond with bright green eyes and pale freckles across his nose, and Dean loves him vicariously through Rob for the duration of the dream. Rob has never even touched him, but he weeps in his car and begs God to forgive him for his impure thoughts.  
  
When Dean finally wakes up, he feels like he's slept for days. It's not an unpleasant feeling, though unfamiliar. He can't remember the last time he actually slept for a full eight hours, unless of course he counts the time he died. Or the other time he sorta died.  
  
Castiel is sitting at the end of the other bed. He's turned the television on, and though it's muted, he's frowning at it as if he objects to it very seriously. Dean blinks in the dim light through the room's heavy curtains, has no idea what day it is. The program Castiel is watching is some sort of religious junk. A preacher is ranting into a microphone on stage in a cavernous church.  
  
"Better with the sound off, eh?" Dean asks. He sits up with a groan.  
  
"I didn't want to wake you," Castiel says.  
  
"How long have I been out?"  
  
"Thirty-five hours."  
  
"Thirty -- _what_?"  
  
"You needed to rest."  
  
"But there's -- what if -- haven't we got work to do?"  
  
"I'm waiting for God's --"  
  
"Direction, yeah, yeah. Holy fuck, I'm starving. Let's go eat."  
  
They drive until they find a pizza place that sells by the slice. Dean catches himself drumming on the steering wheel as he pulls into the parking lot, and he's grinning like an idiot, couldn't say why. He wonders briefly if Castiel is a genie, but last time he checked this isn't something he'd wish for, aside from the restfulness, and the coma-inducing orgasm wasn't bad either, despite the circumstances.  
  
He watches Castiel eat a slice of cheese pizza with a knife and fork, and an idea begins to form. Things can't go on like this forever. Sammy can't conspire with Ruby, Dean can't kill demons without him, and Castiel can't keep insisting he's an angel. He's almost definitely not bad, but there's got to be some dark twist, there always is, and Dean means to figure it out. He thinks that maybe if he does, he can go to Sam and tell him he was partially right, and hopefully by then Sam will have realized Dean was not entirely pigheaded and jealous and stupid and actually had a point about Ruby, too.  
  
"Anything?" Dean asks with a mouth full of calzone.  
  
"Not yet." Castiel knows what that question always means. He's learning. Dean bites down on a grin, thinking about the other things he could teach him. It's the only way, really, to prove once and for all that there is nothing angelic about this arrangement.  
  
They go back to the motel room, and Dean considers ordering a porn, but that would be tacky, and he wants to do this thing right. It won't be legit if he doesn't. He takes out a pack of cards and throws them on the bed. Castiel stares at them as if he's trying to interpret a sign.  
  
"You know how to play poker?" Dean asks.  
  
Castiel frowns up at him, tilts his head like a curious bird.  
  
"Didn't think so."  
  
So Dean spends the afternoon showing him how. Castiel holds his cards wrong and forgets the rules, but he's got the best poker face Dean's ever seen.  
  
"What's the point of this?" he asks, an hour into the lesson.  
  
"The point is money, Clarence. Normally we'd be betting. I'd say we could play strip poker instead, but I don't know if the guy you're living in would be into that."  
  
It's Dean's one concern about this brilliant plan. He has no qualms about messing around with someone who claims to be an angel, but if someone else has to be involved against his will, he'll have to call the whole thing off.  
  
"I don't understand," Castiel says. Dean throws down his cards and lies back on the bed.  
  
"I'm talking about Rob. It's all fine and good for you to blow out my synapses with your magic fingers, but what does he think about it?"  
  
Castiel takes a moment to process this, and Dean waits. Rob is not a bad looking guy. It's been Dean's experience that demons usually choose attractive hosts, though old yellow eyes was pretty modest in his final form.  
  
"It was his idea to touch you in the first place," Castiel says.  
  
"What, he's giving you orders? I've known a lot of possessed people in my time, and they don't usually have much say --"  
  
"They were possessed by demons. I am not a demon."  
  
Dean is still skeptical about this, though it must be true. Holy water does nothing, the knife was useless.  
  
"So this guy likes me?" Dean says, tipping his legs apart like an invitation, or maybe it's more like a dare. He folds his hands behind his head, waits.  
  
"Likes you? He was concerned for you, the first night that I spent here. You were having a nightmare. I was cautious of touching you, I'd seen the marks I left. But he was persistent."  
  
"What, he talks to you? A little voice inside your head?"  
  
"It's not like talking. He has free will, and I am responsible for honoring it. I can't make him do things he doesn't want to do."  
  
"Well, good," Dean says. "Because I was thinking we should practice."  
  
"Practice?"  
  
"Yeah, cause in the heat of battle, you might have to grab me, or we might reach for the same salt shaker at a diner, and I don't really need to be getting a boner in those situations. You said you had to practice restraint. So come on over here and practice."  
  
Castiel gathers up the playing cards and puts them on the beside table in a neat stack. He's wearing Rob's shirt and pants today, no tie. Dean makes him take the trench coat off whenever they come back to a motel room, because he always forgets and there's something uncanny about him leaving it on all the time.  
  
"Unless you've got a better idea for how we should spend the afternoon," Dean says. "Cause I'd rather be slaying demons, don't get me wrong."  
  
"I've yet to receive word about where we should go next." Castiel is standing beside the bed, staring at Dean. Whoever he's possessing, there's no way an angel could look at a human so hungrily. Even if he's not angel -- of course he's not -- he's some kind of terrifyingly powerful entity who should be above this sort of thing, and Dean mentally pats himself on the back. He's still got it.  
  
"That's what I thought you'd say." Dean rubs a spot beside him on the mattress. "So, since we've got time to kill. Might as well make use of it."  
  
Castiel sits down and looks at Dean, not quite sheepish but less confident than usual. He reaches over to very gently lay a hand on Dean's stomach. Dean quivers, somehow hadn't expected this to still hit him so hard. He shuts his eyes and tries to concentrate, but it doesn't work. His dick responds like Castiel has just slid his lips around it.  
  
"That's too much," Dean says, his eyelids fluttering. He's forgotten what he's trying to accomplish here. Getting off suddenly seems more desirable than proving a point.  
  
"I don't think I can lessen the impact any more than this," Castiel says. He takes his hand away, and Dean groans. He feels almost relieved for a moment, then only panicked and full of infantile need. He starts to grab for Castiel's hand but stops himself, sits up.  
  
"Okay," Dean says. He draws both hands through his hair and shakes his head, tries to regain a logical train of thought. "What if I touch you? Would that be easier?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
"No objections from Rob?"  
  
A smile flicks onto Castiel's face and disappears.  
  
"No."  
  
"Okay. Okay." Dean doesn't know why he's nervous. He and Castiel are both kneeling on the bed like teenage friends who are going to practice their kissing technique on each other. Dean had a friend like that in Lawrence, but it got out of hand, and he eventually began to ignore him whenever they were in town.  
  
He touches the collar of Castiel's shirt, pinches it between two fingers. It doesn't effect him at all, until Castiel turns to look at what he's doing, and Dean feels his breath on the back of his hand. His cock stiffens, jammed painfully inside his pants now. Dean is going to take a break, back off for a second, but then he's touching Castiel's lips, which is probably the worst idea ever.  
  
"Does it do anything to you?" Dean asks, breathless, and oh, God, this isn't going according to plan. "Like it does to me?"  
  
"Yes," Castiel says when Dean slides both hands into his hair. His eyes fall shut, and that's really all Dean needs. He tears his jeans open with one shaking hand and tips Castiel's head back with the other.  
  
"Fuck it," he says in a growl. He falls onto Castiel, knocks him back onto the bed, and for a moment it feels like a thousand pins have pierced his skin. Before he can wrench out a scream, this sensation fades into something still rough but good now, so fucking good. He kisses Castiel hard and wet and it's not exactly the careful introduction he'd planned, but he figures it must be working, because his erection is grinding against what feels like Castiel's.  
  
"Are you hard?" Dean asks with a wicked smirk, reaching down to find out. Castiel spreads his legs like he's been waiting, and he arches off the bed with a gasp when Dean feels his cock through his pants.  
  
"Hard as hell," Dean says triumphantly. He licks Castiel's cheek, has to keep talking or this is gonna be over fast. "I knew it. Knew you were bad. So tell me, huh?" He finds his way into Castiel's pants, reaches past a pair of his own boxers and wraps a tight hand around his cock. Castiel squeezes Dean's arms, and if his skin is on fire again he's too preoccupied to notice.  
  
"Tell me how bad you are," Dean says while he strokes him. "Tell me, go on, you can't hide it now."  
  
Castiel chews his lip and thrusts into Dean's hand, his eyes pinched tight. Dean rubs his thumb in circles over the wet head of his cock until he finally draws a noise out of him, a whine building low in the back of his throat.  
  
"Feels good, doesn't it?" Dean whispers in his ear.  
  
Castiel doesn't answer, only lets loose a long sigh of relief when he comes, so profound that Dean can feel it between his own ribs. Dean pumps him as his come spills down over his hand, licks his throat and rubs against his thigh. When Castiel's eyes open Dean half expects them to flash something inhuman at him, but there's only the same gray-blue he's come to know. Dean kisses him over each eyelid, so grateful for this he could cry.  
  
"I think I wanna fuck you," Dean says, his voice so rough he barely recognizes it, but just saying so makes him come in his unbuttoned jeans. Castiel holds onto the back of his neck while his orgasm shudders out of him, and when Dean collapses onto his chest he wonders if he's left another hand print behind, if he's covered Dean's skin in hundreds of them.  
  
"Well," Dean says after they've both been still for several minutes, panting and sweating on each other. "We'll just have to try not to do that in the heat of battle. Or in a diner."  
  
Castiel says nothing, and Dean sits up to look at him, though he's almost afraid to. His eyes are shut, and Dean waits for him to work up the nerve to face him after what just happened, but he only lies there until his lips part silently. He's asleep.  
  
Dean lies beside him and tries to figure out what any of this means, but he's out cold before he can even begin to think about it. He dreams about eating waffles in a diner with Sam and shooting targets in a field in Kansas while his father watches. He wakes up slow, something tickling the side of his face. When he opens his eyes he sees Castiel sitting beside him. He could swear what he just felt on his cheek was a feather. Maybe he was still dreaming.  
  
"Have we got orders?" Dean asks.  
  
Castiel nods and straightens his shirt.  
  
"Las Cruces, New Mexico," he says.  
  
"Jesus. That sounds serious."  
  
"Yes."  
  
Castiel stands and refastens his pants. Guilt takes Dean down like a rip tide.  
  
"Is it okay?" he asks. "I mean. I'm not going to get you in trouble, am I?"  
  
"Get me in trouble with who, Dean?"  
  
Dean blinks at him. He was going to say God. It doesn't make any sense that rolling around in bed with him would be what convinced Dean this is the real deal. But when's the last time anything made sense.  
  
"It'll be a long drive," Dean says.  
  
"It will."  
  
"You gonna ride with me?"  
  
Castiel looks tired. Dean is pretty sure he just fucked things up royal. He imagines Castiel telling him like Sam did that he has to leave, that Dean just loves him too much and too hard and not in the way he's supposed to.  
  
"Yes, I'll ride with you," Castiel says.  
  
They check out of the motel and head west. Dean wants to ask a thousand questions, but there's only one he's ready to have answered. He puts the radio on.  
  
"You like classic rock?" he asks.  
  
Castiel turns from the window and scratches his head like for a second he's just a regular guy.  
  
"What do you mean?" he asks.  
  
And Dean spends the rest of the trip explaining.


	2. Chapter 2

They cross the border into New Mexico around three o'clock in the afternoon, and the last, too-long stint in the midwest feels like a bad dream already. Dean has a piece of strawberry licorice hanging from his mouth, and it's flapping against the highway wind, almost hitting his cheek. They stopped at an ancient candy shop in Dodge City, and Dean filled a plastic bag with seventeen dollars worth of multicolored candy weight. Castiel is in the passenger seat beside him, rummaging through the bag like he doesn't know where to begin.   
  
"You have to try them all," Dean shouts over the music. He got fifteen seconds into "Love is a Battlefield" before he realized it wasn't the Heart song he thought it was, and now it's too late. He's in a startlingly good mood, drumming on the car door with his elbow poked out the window, and he thinks it's something to do with the fact that he never gets an excuse to head out west. Also, he likes introducing Castiel to things, like they're in some goofy-ass fish out of water comedy and not just on the precipice of another goddamn apocalypse. He's thinking that if things go right in Las Cruces, Castiel's next lesson will be Vegas.  
  
"Most of these don't taste good," Castiel says. He's got half a circus peanut pinched between his fingers.  
  
"What! Maybe your vessel's got some kind of deformed tongue." A joke at his own expense that there's no point in actually making sits in the back of Dean's throat: _you'd know, pervert_. His experiences with the tongue in question have been pretty fucking satisfactory so far.  
  
"Try this," he says, fishing through the bag until he comes up with a chocolate covered peanut. Castiel eats it and shrugs.   
  
"It tastes like dust," he says.  
  
"You're crazy," Dean says, though he kind of knows what he means. He reaches into the bag and eats a random handful -- mostly jelly beans and gummi bears, plus a stray M&M -- and slaps Castiel's leg. Castiel stares at him like he's a little offended.  
  
"It's fucking hot down here," Dean says.  
  
"Down where?" Castiel asks. His eyes flick to Dean's lap, and Dean laughs so hard he almost drives off the road.  
  
"I mean here in the, like, southwest, you deviant. New Mexico. The temperature, you know, of the state. It's hot." Castiel just stares at him, either confused or annoyed. It's hard to tell. Maybe both.   
  
"You're sweating," Dean says. "Might want to take off that coat."  
  
Castiel looks down at himself like he forgot he was there. His hair is damp at his temples and along his forehead, and his cheeks are flushed, lips fat and pink from the heat. Dean watches out of the corner of his eye as he slides the coat off and undoes a couple of buttons on his shirt.   
  
"You think we'll be in Las Cruces by dinnertime?" Dean asks.   
  
"We should be."  
  
"Great." Dean grins at him wickedly. "Tacos."   
  
Castiel actually smiles back, which is something that he's learning to do.  
  
"Maybe some tequila, too," Dean says. He figures that if they're gonna jerk each other off in hotel rooms, there's no real danger in adding a drunken angel experiment to his agenda.  
  
When they're in the car, surrounded by the friendly banality of road signs and listening to the radio too loud, it's easy for Dean to forget pretty much everything, the whole bewildering burden of his life. Driving so long has lifted his spirits, and he stays hungry no matter how much candy he eats, burning up the best kind of energy. He doesn't want to think about what will happen when they arrive or why they're even headed in this direction. Castiel won't tell him until he's ready, anyway. It doesn't bother Dean so much anymore, just reminds him of the days when he hunted with his father. Shoot first, find out why later. He could only hunt this way with someone he trusts, and it still makes him queasy, but he's finally come to trust the angel.  
  
"These are good," Castiel says, and Dean turns to see him picking through the jelly beans and eating only the black licorice ones.   
  
"They're all yours," he says.  
  
The sun is going down fast by the time they reach the Las Cruces city limits. The town is flat and paved with squat buildings, the sky netted by power lines. Mountains jut up behind it like a fortress on the horizon.   
  
"What are those called?" Dean asks, pointing.  
  
"The Organ Mountains," Castiel says.   
  
“Sweet. Is that some kinda -- Donner party reference?" It was one of the few history lessons Dean paid attention to, though he still has no clue where the Donner party incident actually took place, just remembers the gore.   
  
Castiel frowns at him, and Dean isn't sure if he knows what he's talking about. Probably not.  
  
"They look like a church organ," Castiel says, nodding to them. "Don't you think?"  
  
"Oh." Dean looks again, notices the almost tubular peaks and the weird, rising symmetry. "Sure."  
  
They find a motel with a pink vacancy sign that glows warm against the darkening sky. Dean gives Castiel a key and walks across the street to a liquor store, buys a bottle of tequila. Probably a bad idea, but still safer than what he really wants to do. The shower is running when he gets back, and he strips down to his undershirt and boxer shorts, does a few shots while he waits his turn. His heel starts jiggling against the stubby motel carpet, and he realizes he's sitting here waiting for Castiel to walk out naked and push him back onto the bed and oh God, how the hell did things get like this? He does another shot.  
  
Thirty minutes later, he's pounding on the bathroom door.   
  
"Did you fall asleep in there?" he shouts. He pushes the door open when he gets no response, and his heart does that thing that feels like every way this could possibly go bad happening all at once, running through his mind on fast forward.   
  
"Dude," he says when he's standing outside the shower curtain and wondering if he should get his gun, steam billowing around him. "Are you okay?"  
  
No answer. Dean licks his lips and asks somebody somewhere -- not God, not necessarily -- to not let this crumble around him, too. He throws the shower curtain back and braces himself, but there's nothing there. No wilted angel, fallen because of him. Nothing.  
  
Dean turns off the water and storms back into the motel room, his heartbeat angry and hard in the hollow of his throat.   
  
"Hey," he says sharply, and he can't batter down the inclination to shout his brother's name through the room. Old habits and all.  
  
He opens the motel room door and looks around outside. The parking lot is quiet, nothing but the occasional car passing by on the street. The organ-shaped mountains watch him reproachfully, still reflecting the last of the pinkish sunset while the rest of the town dims out. He thinks about screaming Castiel's name, but he knows it won't do any good. He's either left, like he used to do all the time, gone in a blink, or someone took him. Dean locks the motel room door and sits on the bed, holds his gun in his hands. He glances at the tequila bottle, but he doesn't want another drink. His stomach is pitching all over the place. That candy was such a bad fucking idea.  
  
"Hey," he says again, barely audible now. If this keeps happening to him.  
  
He puts the gun away.  
  
An hour later, he's getting ready to either go find some real food or break all of the furniture in the room when the door unlocks with a hard click. Dean watches the deadbolt snap open and he springs off the bed, weaponless and wide-eyed. Castiel walks in and barely looks at him before he turns to lock the door again. His hair is wet and he's wearing the trench coat.  
  
"What the fuck!" Dean shouts, and he tells himself to dial it down. Somebody might call the cops. Castiel looks at him with grave sympathy.   
  
"I'm sorry," he says. "I was called away."   
  
"By who?" Dean spits, but he doesn't expect an answer. Castiel takes the coat off like a concession and folds it carefully over the back of a chair with ripped upholstery.   
  
"I didn't mean to upset you," Castiel says, and that's a sucker punch that rips through Dean so quick he almost buckles. "But you were --"  
  
"I don't give a fuck what you do," Dean says, raising his shoulders as if he can't believe the nerve. "Just, I'm -- fucking hungry -- and -- starving to death in here and --"  
  
He makes himself stop talking. Castiel looks pathetic with his hair wet and messy, his tie crooked as usual. He still hasn't figured out how to knot it properly. Dean isn't sure why he wears it. Maybe it's some sort of comfort for his vessel, a familiar artifact.   
  
"I'm gonna go eat," Dean says, hurrying past him to the door. "Do whatever you want."  
  
He's too pissed off and fucked up to go near his car, so he walks down the road with his hands in his pockets until he comes across a crowded cantina with lights strung on its patio. He looks back to see Castiel trailing him. He's put the coat back on.   
  
"You coming in or are you just stalking me?" he shouts. Castiel takes his time walking to the restaurant's front steps, and he looks up at Dean, the bags under his eyes heavier than usual. He always seems so tired.   
  
"I'm coming with you," he says, so gentle that Dean feels insulted.  
  
They sit at the bar. Dean eats a basket of tortilla chips in under three minutes and asks for another. He tells Castiel he should order everything extra spicy.  
  
"To get the full experience," he says. He's drinking beer, already feels like he's riddled with bullet holes and doesn't need to continue with tequila tonight. He orders a big, girly fishbowl of a margarita for Castiel, who regards it skeptically.   
  
"You're not going to tell me why we're here?" Dean asks, loud over the frantic music playing on the cantina's loudspeakers. Castiel takes a sip of his drink and makes a face, then licks some of the salt from the rim of the glass. He seems pleasantly surprised by the familiar flavor, and Dean watches him lick the glass again, and again. His hand shakes when he reaches for his beer.  
  
"I guess I'll take that as a no," he grumbles. Their food arrives on steaming plates covered with cheese. Castiel's shoulders sag at the sight of it.   
  
"This is a dangerous place," he says. Dean looks around the cantina, but most of the people here look like cheerful locals or cheesy tourists.   
  
"What, you think the food's that bad?" he asks.  
  
"Las Cruces," Castiel says. "It has a unique history."   
  
"Yeah, well. What doesn't? You going to fill me in?"  
  
Castiel gives him a curious look. Dean hates the feeling of someone trying to figure him out, though Castiel has a pretty good excuse.   
  
"Later," is all he says. He picks up a fork and pokes through his food cautiously.  
  
"Sure, later, fine, why the fuck not?" Dean is speaking mostly to his plate. "Not like I'm in a hurry."  
  
He's still getting used to the idea that he doesn't have to live every minute of his life like he's working toward a deadline. Considering that angels have arrived and an apocalypse is on the way, it's not very easy to accept. Hell is a constant threat at the edges of his subconscious, like part of him is still there and if he turns his head the wrong way he'll see everything and become trapped again. He's afraid all the time that the things he's struggling not to remember will rush back in when Castiel leaves. Even if they somehow survive the coming war, it's not like he's going to haunt Dean's footsteps forever.   
  
They walk back to the motel in the dark. Dean is anxious and sleepy and a little drunk. Castiel's eyes are darting around like he's expecting an ambush. Arriving at their damp first floor motel room is a profound relief, and Dean can't shake the feeling that they were chased. Castiel watches him bolt the door, then falls to a seat on his bed as if he's deep in thought.  
  
"I'm gonna clean up," Dean says. Castiel gives him a searching look that makes him want to ask what the hell he _wants_ , but instead he just goes into the bathroom and shuts the door hard behind him.  
  
Dean laughs at himself before climbing into the shower, because he actually pauses for a moment, thinking he might get sucked up into oblivion the way Castiel did when he was in here. But that's not right. He's not the one who leaves. He stands under the hot water and lets out his breath in a long sigh. The truth is, he wants company, even now. He's gotten weird about being alone. Or maybe he was always weird about it, even before the nursery fire, before everyone started dying.   
  
His shower only lasts long enough for a quick shampoo and a cursory soap and rinse of everything that needs it. He tells himself it's out of habit -- the ability to shower as quickly as possible was a virtue in his father's eyes -- and not because he wants to make sure Castiel hasn't disappeared again. He dries off fast and doesn't bother to dress, just wraps the towel around his waist and throws the door open.   
  
Castiel is still sitting in the same spot, still staring off into space like he's been hypnotized. Dean is going to offer some smartass remark, but why bother. He can't be riled. He's not Sam. Dean puts on clean boxers and crawls into his own bed, flips the light off and turns toward the wall.   
  
"Dean," Castiel says quietly, and it hits Dean like a lullaby through the humid silence of the room.   
  
"What?"  
  
"Would you like to know why we're here?"  
  
Dean leans up and looks over his shoulder at Castiel. The room is dark, and it takes his eyes a moment to adjust.  
  
"Dude, will you lose the fucking coat?" he says, rolling onto his back. Castiel takes it off, then the tie, then the shirt, pants, socks, shoes. He stands in his underwear for awhile before plucking Dean's dirty t-shirt off the floor and putting it on.   
  
"You have a thing about clothes," Dean says as he walks to the bed. "I don't know if you've noticed."  
  
"I need contact with familiar things," Castiel says, his soft voice a little tight. "It's hard for me to maintain this form here."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because my brothers have gathered here. They're like a force, pulling me always toward them."  
  
Dean knows a little something about that. Castiel sits beside him on the bed, and Dean is flooded with stupid happiness. He needs contact, too.   
  
"That's what happened earlier," Castiel says. "I broke out of this form before I left the motel room, and I was afraid I might have hurt you. It was good that you were away."  
  
"But when I'm gone, that's when you go all supernova?"  
  
"When they're near," Castiel says. "Or. When I'm not close to you."  
  
Dean takes that in like a quake through his chest, and his hands twitch on the bedspread. He feels a little hollow and indistinct himself. It's like withdrawal, and it's not exactly a comfort to learn that Castiel is experiencing it, too. Except that it kind of is.   
  
"So tell me about Las Cruces," Dean says, before they can do something stupid like grab hold of each other. Castiel climbs over Dean and sits on the mattress with his back propped against the wall. Dean wants to ask him what fatigue feels like when it's brand new.   
  
"This town has a history of demonic residency," Castiel says. "Like much of the southwestern part of your country."  
  
"That's news to me."  
  
"In 1862, a hunter named Albert Jennings Fountain settled here with his wife. He had lived in New York and California, and came to the southwest when he enlisted in the Union Army. After marrying, he was determined to clear his wife's hometown of Mesilla of the demons that had overrun it in her childhood. They thrived on the anxiety that many people suffered in the lawless settlements near the border. Fountain was a lawyer, fluent in Spanish, and he was determined to bring order where there had previously been chaos. Many demons tried to kill him, but none succeeded until they became organized around a particular leader. One night, when Fountain was on his way home from a hunt with his eight-year-old son, they caught up with him near Las Cruces and killed him. It required the creation of a seal."  
  
"Wait, wait." Dean shakes his head. "I thought these seals were -- God-type -- things. How could a demon create one?"  
  
"A demon cannot. An angel, however, can."  
  
"But --"  
  
"There was a fallen angel among the posse that killed Fountain.”  
  
Dean had just begun to sink comfortably into the blankets, like Castiel was telling him a bedtime story, but his heart rate starts climbing at the mention of a fall. He sits up and leans forward, folds his arms over his knees.   
  
"This angel had possessed a U.S. Marshal named Oliver Lee," Castiel says. "He was obsessed with understanding how Fountain had managed to survive as long as he had. His theory was that it had something to do with Fountain's weapon of choice, which was a particular Winchester rifle he'd purchased in California." Castiel tilts his head. "Do you know anything about your family history?"  
  
"Oh, sure. They're all dead except for me and Sam. What more do I need to know?"  
  
He didn't mean to say it like that, or at all. Castiel flinches like he's going to reach for him, then settles back against the wall.  
  
"So now what?" Dean asks when Castiel doesn't continue. "Lilith is trying to break this seal that the fallen angel created when Fountain died?"  
  
"Yes," Castiel says. "But it's complicated by several factors. Fountain did not die alone. His son, Henry, was also killed by the posse that came for him. Their bodies, and Fountain's rifle, were never found."  
  
"So?"  
  
"This was the only seal created by a fallen angel. Precautions were taken afterward to ensure that it would never happen again. These precautions make it difficult for my brothers and I to protect this particular seal. We have determined its physical location, but we do not know if there are other components scattered elsewhere. The rifle, for example, or the bones of Fountain and his son."   
  
"What is the seal, exactly?" Dean asks. "Like, a big stamp sitting out there in the desert? What does it look like?"  
  
"It would not be visible to you or any other human."  
  
"Of course. So where do I fit in, exactly?"   
  
Castiel straightens his shoulders against the wall. Dean's eyes have fully adjusted now, and he thinks about how they must look, a couple of grown men sitting in their underwear, as close as they can get without touching.   
  
"Your brother will be here soon," Castiel says. "I need you to accompany him and the demon he travels with to locate the physical artifacts that may have been involved in the creation of the seal. The bones of Albert and Henry Fountain, and the rifle."  
  
"Terrific," Dean grunts. The wild excitement that ripped through him upon learning that Sammy is on his way dulls to resentment at the mention of Ruby. "How the hell am I supposed to find bodies that have been missing for over a hundred years?"  
  
"I can help you with that," Castiel says.   
  
"Then why can't you just do it yourself?"  
  
"Because, Dean. We need you to reclaim these things from your brother. I can't touch them. This seal is incredibly dangerous to my brothers and I. Anything to do with the fallen always is."  
  
"What do Sam and Ruby want with some dead hunter's bones?" Dean asks, though he's pretty sure he doesn't want to hear the answer.  
  
Castiel cocks his head like he's trying to decide if Dean can handle the truth. Dean narrows his eyes, pretends that he can.  
  
"Anything to do with a fallen angel's work is a very powerful tool for demons," he says. "Especially accursed artifacts."   
  
"Sam's not a demon," Dean says, the words burning up his throat before he can stuff them down.  
  
"I know that. Sam is something else entirely."  
  
Dean sniffs irritably and lies back on his pillow, rolls over and smashes his eyes shut. Castiel gets the message and climbs off the bed. Dean listens to him brush his vessel's teeth before he gets under his own blankets. The room is freezing, which doesn't make any sense, and Castiel's news about Sam and the seal gnaw hard at Dean, keeping him awake. He's not sure he really understands what's going on here, but he's gotten used to feeling that way since Castiel pulled him out of hell.  
  
When he finally sleeps, he returns as usual, burns and screams and tries to shut his eyes but can't. He fights through the nightmares, has gotten good at that, and finds himself in the motel room with Castiel, who is standing near the door and looking at him like they're both going to die and soon.  
  
"I'm sorry," Castiel says. "They want me back."  
  
"Wait!" Dean shouts when he reaches for the door, because he's dreaming and in here he's got no pride. "Don't go."  
  
"I can't stay here with you, Dean. It's killing me."  
  
 _It's killing me, I can't stay_. Sam said that once.  
  
"I'll die if you go," Dean tells him. In the dream, it's so clearly true.  
  
"You're already dead," Castiel says, as if he regrets this very much, and the walls burst into flame.  
  
Dean wakes up fast and hard, breathing in gulps like there is real fire here, sucking the air from the room. Castiel is standing near the bed, his mouth open, arms outstretched but frozen.   
  
"You're alright," he says, flat like he doesn't believe it.  
  
"You lie a lot, for an angel," Dean says. He puts his head in his hands and breathes deep, clean dry southwestern air, tempered by the motel room stink that is the same in every city, which he's come to appreciate.   
  
"Dean," Castiel says, and Dean can hear the question in his name, because Castiel is learning to speak the language of names that he and Sam maybe invented. _Do you want me to, should I, is it worth it_? Because suddenly it's up to him.  
  
Dean looks up and gives him his answer without saying anything. He wonders what happened to Castiel's vessel when he "broke" from this form earlier. Why wasn't he left behind in the shower, shivering and disoriented and asking Dean what happened? Dean would have been so goddamn happy to lift him up and get him warm and put his arm around the shoulders of someone uncomplicated for awhile. Only, who the fuck is he kidding. It's not like the guy is going to come away from this thing without serious damage. Nobody who gets near him does.  
  
There's a thunderclap outside, which seems weird. The skies were clear when they walked back from the restaurant, like clouds are only a rumor in this part of the country. Castiel looks up at the ceiling, and Dean snorts.  
  
"Don't tell me," he says. "That's God speaking to you."  
  
Castiel makes a face that for a second is plainly human. Still, there is something about the way he turns his head that is worth noticing, different. Graceful isn't the right word.   
  
"It's thunder," he says, as if Dean is an incredible idiot. Dean grins huge, like _get over here_ , and Castiel somehow understands. He sits beside Dean and touches his forehead, just cautiously. Dean holds his breath, lets his bones liquefy when Castiel's fingers finally slide into his hair.  
  
"You're alright," Castiel says again, and Dean feels the words shoot through him, rolling over his skin and finding their way down to his dick, like he said something really filthy, like _you want to be fucked hard, don't you_ , like he would ever say that.  
  
"Yeah," Dean exhales. He leans back onto the bed and pulls Castiel with him, on top of him, and God it's good to be crushed under the weight of someone else. Dean shuts his eyes and lets Castiel kiss his face like he'll break if he's not careful. Every time his lips touch Dean's skin it's like a tongue sliding slow over his balls, and he's pretty sure he'd die if they did anything more than touch, but it would be one motherfucker of a good death. His heart is hammering, and this is so dangerous he doesn't even know how to start thinking about everything that could go wrong, but at the moment it's just awesome, like a box of matches in a warehouse full of fireworks, like water that is just beginning to boil around him, and he's been so cold.  
  
"Say something," Dean begs, his voice cracked apart. Castiel is licking his neck soft and hot and over and over, like he's trying to get to the candy center of his pulse.   
  
"What do you want me to say?" Their laps drag together when he shifts, and Dean groans shamelessly, jerks his hips.   
  
"Nothing," he huffs. "Something. I don't know."   
  
He's always liked girls who say a lot of blasphemous shit they'll regret during sex. The dirtier the better. _God, that big cock makes me so wet_. That's a favorite, a classic. He wants to know what he does to Castiel, how he could possibly affect him at all.  
  
Castiel leans up onto his elbows and smooths his hands down the sides of Dean's face. Dean could look at him like this for a long time, his whole body pulsing, Castiel heavy and warm and watching him like he's everything that is hanging in the balance.  
  
"It was hard to be away from you," he says.  
  
Dean kisses him, loud and wet and kind of frantic, his hands shaking as he pushes his t-shirt up to touch the skin at the base of his back, which is just beginning to dampen with sweat. He wants to see him naked and suck his cock and he's going to come just thinking about it. He laughs into Castiel's mouth, because he'll probably sleep for two days when they're finished, like the first time, and they'll miss the apocalypse if they keep this up. It's not a worrisome prospect at the moment.  
  
"Why are you laughing?" Castiel asks. He pushes himself all the way up, hands flat on the mattress, his lap still pressed tight against Dean's. He's hard on Dean's thigh, hot through the thin fabric of his borrowed boxer shorts, and Dean is so wound up that if anyone who wasn't sent by God touched him they'd be electrocuted.   
  
"Dude, admit it," Dean says. "This is kind of hilarious."  
  
Castiel doesn't get it, so Dean just flips him over and straddles him. He's breathing hard and disoriented, and Dean likes him this way. He might know about seals and God and heaven and the end of the world, but Dean is the expert on what they're about to do. Though actually he's never done this with another guy, or at least hasn't come anywhere close since he was a kid and he decided it wasn't going to be this way.   
  
“Do you know everything about me?” Dean asks. Castiel is holding his hips too tight, and it's becoming clear that he doesn't like not being in control, which is really kind of okay with Dean.   
  
“Sometimes you surprise me,” Castiel says, and Dean kisses him for that, until he gets flipped onto his back, so fast he forgets how to breathe. He laughs again, a warm, jittery sensation starting in his stomach and shaking through his bones. This is better every time.   
  
Castiel slides Dean's boxers down with a lack of urgency that makes him curse and squirm. His knees are locked around Dean's side, keeping him in place. Thunder rocks through the sky again, and the lamp on the bedside table vibrates with the sound. Dean waits for lightening to split the ceiling and rain down around them, and hisses encouragement when Castiel wraps one uncertain hand around him. He feels invincible and iconoclastic and ignited, made for this. Or remade. It occurs to him, just before he comes, teeth clenched and muscles tight, that they might be getting away with this because Castiel has already fallen. He could be working alone, lying about everything. Maybe he heard rumors of Dean from his demon buddies and decided to save him because he wanted him for himself. Out of his mind with his orgasm, Dean kind of likes the idea. He wraps his arms and legs around Castiel and gets him as close as he can, spilled dry and still moaning against his neck.  
  
“God,” he breathes, because he can't think of a better word. Castiel licks his jaw and slides along his leg, still hard. Dean tries to catch his breath but then just pushes it back into Castiel's mouth, gives it away again.   
  
“Say something.” Dean needs to hear it all the time, _you're alright, you're alright, you're alright_ , even when it's a lie, especially then.   
  
Castiel sits up on his knees, and for a moment Dean is afraid he's pissed him off. It's happened before. He doesn't like being ordered around.   
  
“Please,” Dean says. Lightening flashes from behind the room's heavy drapes.   
  
Castiel runs two fingers soft across Dean's lips, and Dean opens his mouth like he was asked, licks at the fingerprints that don't belong to him.   
  
“You're –” Castiel starts to say, but Dean loses his nerve, doesn't want to know, so he sucks on Castiel's finger until he goes incoherent.   
  
“Here,” Dean says. He sits up and pulls down the boxers that were stretched tight over Castiel's erection, tries not to stare. “I'll show you something.”  
  
Castiel's thighs are shaking at Dean's sides, and when Dean's tongue slides from between his lips, even before it's met the head of Castiel's cock, he pitches forward with a swallowed exclamation and braces himself against Dean's shoulders. Dean licks him just once, his own dick twitching as his tongue swipes across the fat, silky head, and he stops to glance up at Castiel's face. His eyes are pinched tight, shoulders tense like he's trying not to sneeze.  
  
“Tell me,” Dean says, his heartbeat too loud to be distinguished from the storm that has begun outside. He doesn't know what he's asking for. He's hard and needy again, shaking, and only pretending that he's calling the shots, that either of them are. This is totally off the fucking rails. Castiel opens one eye, and exhales achingly when Dean licks his lips.   
  
“Show me,” Castiel says, his voice half-buried, cheeks blurred with pink.   
  
“What do you want?” Dean asks. He moves his hips, fake unintentional brush of his cock against Castiel's trembling leg.   
  
“Your – mouth,” Castiel chokes the words out, his eyes going watery. Dean smiles quick before drawing his tongue along the underside of his cock, too slow to finish him off, and Castiel's nails bite into his shoulders.   
  
“Yeah?” Dean says, his lips not an inch from the leaking head. He's close to something that feels like heatstroke, and he wants Castiel's cock down his throat so bad he can't remember ever wanting anything else, but it's going to be over too fast.   
  
Castiel nods, his eyes shut, and touches Dean's ear, which is close enough to begging. Dean gives in and takes him into his mouth, moans with dumb satisfaction at the warm weight on his tongue. Castiel gasps, and there's a flash of something that isn't lightening, but then it's done, come pumping hot down Dean's throat, and Castiel is still inside his vessel, or maybe for a second it's just the vessel looking back at Dean, heavy-lidded, because he smiles with a clumsiness Dean has never known the angel to be capable of and takes hold of Dean's dick expertly, pumps him until the kind of second-act orgasm that always hurts a little buckles out of him.   
  
They collapse together and listen to the rain beat the motel roof, breathing onto each other's skin in the dark. Dean curls his arms around the man who is drooling a little onto his neck, and he can't decide who he wants to wake up to, but when Castiel rolls onto his side and gives him his familiar impervious gaze, he's glad to recognize the angel. Dean kisses him, still so hungry, and he's worried for a moment that he's saying it out loud: _stay with me, don't go_. Castiel pushes lazy fingers through Dean's hair, then slides down to sigh onto his shoulder, deflates.  
  
“It's raining,” Dean says, like this is a sign that needs interpreting. Castiel ignores the observation and continues rubbing his hand down Dean's chest, pausing over the shape of his ribs like he's looking for something hidden between them.   
  
“This is bad,” Dean says. He's wide awake and he can't help it. “This has got to be at least sort of bad. What we're doing.”   
  
“Humans were designed to take comfort in each other,” Castiel mumbles, rolling heavier onto Dean's side. “And it's a great comfort to my vessel, being close like this, close to you.”  
  
Dean snorts, because, what a cop out.   
  
“How about you?” he asks. Castiel's breathing stops for a just a moment.  
  
“Yes,” he says. It isn't a real answer, and Dean expected as much. “But that is less important.”  
  
“Mmm,” Dean says dismissively. He sits up and gropes for the blankets, though he's still sweating and the room is warm. He wants to ask Castiel what it feels like to be wrapped in cheap motel sheets and pulled into someone's arms when you have no frame of reference, but it's a question he could answer himself. Dean only knows that he's wanted it for much longer, from someone else who couldn't give it, someone who, when he finally went bad, didn't do it for him.   
  
“I don't want to ruin everything for you,” Dean says, and he's not sure who he's talking to. Castiel is asleep, his breath steady and warm on Dean's collarbone. Dean puts his nose in Castiel's hair and sucks in that motel shampoo smell, so much better when it's this close. He wraps him up tighter, for the benefit of the vessel, or the angel, or himself.   
  
*

He wakes up to sunlight beating in through the motel room windows and Castiel's hand on his face, stroking him awake. Dean rolls onto his back with a groan and blinks, rubs his eyes. He needs a shower. Or a drink. Something to clear his head. Castiel is wearing one of his flannel shirts, buttoned up neatly.   
  
“Your brother is here,” Castiel says with uncanny calm. Dean chokes on his breath and sits up like he's thrashing through water. He looks around the room, but doesn't see Sam anywhere.  
  
“Not here,” Castiel says, frowning at his confusion. “In town. He arrived this morning with the demon who –“  
  
“The demon who he travels with,” Dean mimics irritably. “You can say her name, you know. Ruby. Or 'that bitch,' or whatever works for you.”  
  
“You don't like to be reminded that he's in the company of a demon.”  
  
“You know what I don't like? I don't like to be psychoanalyzed first thing in the morning. Fuck!”  
  
He shuts himself in the bathroom and takes a long shower, tries not to think about Sam and the fact that they're now directly competing for jobs. Meanwhile, they're both taking comfort in someone who wants the other brother dead. Castiel won't say it out loud, but he wants to kill Sam, who was once so easily on his side, and leave Dean behind on earth, not knowing what the fuck hit him. He wants him to be grateful to live in a world without his brother, and to call it something other than hell. Dean wonders what Sam tells Ruby when she gives him the same friendly advice: _this would be a whole lot easier without your brother around_.  
  
When he's out of the shower he shaves and brushes his teeth, soaks in the remaining steam. He listens for sounds of Castiel out in the room, and has a panicked suspicion that he's gone. He yanks open the door and sees him waiting by the front window.   
  
“I won't be able to come with you when you see your brother,” Castiel says.   
  
“Fine,” Dean mumbles, though he really doesn't want to face Ruby and Sam alone.   
  
“They are currently in a diner ten miles down the road on the left. It's called Hurley's. Go there, but don't tell them everything.”  
  
“Like I was going to,” Dean says. It's horrible, not being able to trust Sam with everything anymore. It's only because Ruby is around all the time. Sam is still good, he's just stubborn and stupid enough to be dangerous.   
  
“Dean,” Castiel say sharply when he's halfway out the door. He groans and turns back.   
  
“This is important,” Castiel says. His face is like stone again, though there is an undercurrent that Dean wants to ride all the way to the floor. He had a dream last night, after the shenanigans, that they fucked in the backseat of his car.   
  
“I know it's important,” he says, though he still hasn't gotten his head around exactly what's going on with this particular seal, except that Lilith wants it broken and Castiel doesn't. There's no telling what Ruby wants, and Sam by proxy.  
  
“Don't let your emotions get the better of you,” Castiel says, and Dean narrows his eyes.   
  
“Oh, right,” he says, thinking of Castiel the night before, watching with fevered breath while Dean sucked on his fingers. “I'll try to keep that in mind.”  
  
He slams the motel room door shut behind him, and tries to figure out why he's so pissed off, then remembers that he's going to meet Sam.   
  
Hurley's diner is a greasy-looking truck stop that is surprisingly clean inside. Dean doesn't know why the hell he's so nervous. It's just his brother. They're just in a fight, bad timing here at the end of the world, but nothing is wrecked for good. When he finally spots Sam sitting at a booth in the corner, he's caught off guard by his grin, and by the fact that Ruby isn't with him. He stands in place for a minute and wonders if a trickster or a time warp or a genie is involved.  
  
"Where's Ruby?" he asks when he sits down. Sam cocks his head and bats his eyelashes.  
  
"Good to see you, too, Dean," he says.   
  
Dean grunts. They saw each other just a few days ago in Peoria, though it wasn't much of a reunion.   
  
"Sorry, I've just gotten used to seeing her humping your leg every second of every goddamn day." Dean's face gets hot when he hears himself. He looks around for the waitress, hoping she'll be pretty. Flirting would be a nice distraction. A seventy-year-old man with tinted glasses and an apron sees him searching and approaches the table. So much for that idea. Dean orders a gigantic breakfast, can't remember the last time he felt this hungry. Sam only asks for more coffee, which annoys the shit out of Dean.  
  
"I thought it would be better if Ruby left before you got here," Sam says. "Considering how things went last time."  
  
"How the hell did you know I'd be here?" Dean asks.   
  
"I dunno, Dean." Sam scoffs. "How'd you know?"  
  
Dean rolls his eyes. Fine. They've been claimed by powerful opposing forces, they're taking orders and probably being set up. It was bound to happen sooner or later. Nothing they can't handle.  
  
"What are you doing in town?" Dean asks.   
  
"Like you don't know."  
  
"Actually, I don't. So you've got the upper hand. Congratulations."  
  
"Dean!"   
  
It's disturbing, how he's actually missed the way his brother gets whiny like this. He hides his smile with his coffee cup.  
  
"I'm not trying to get the upper hand," Sam says. "We both want the same thing."  
  
"And what, exactly, has Ruby told you that you want this week?"  
  
Sam shakes his head and sets his mouth in ready-to-storm-out mode. Dean would pinch his cheek if he thought he could get away with it.   
  
"There's a seal here," Sam says. "It's being maintained by some artifacts. As long as those artifacts are intact, the seal can never be broken. We just have to get to them before Lilith does. Think about it, Dean. Even if Lilith somehow manages to break every other seal, as long as we have these things in our possession, we've got power over her. Ruby's been trying to figure how we could lock them down permanently --"  
  
"Let me guess," Dean says. "By using black magic."  
  
His food arrives, and the waiter gives him a long look before turning back to the counter.   
  
"No," Sam whispers sharply. "That would defeat the whole purpose." His eyes wander down to Dean's plate, which is overflowing with bacon, sausage, pancakes, eggs and toast.   
  
"Hungry?" Dean asks. Sam grins, and Dean's ribs ache.   
  
"I'll have one piece," Sam says, reaching for some bacon. If things were normal, Dean would slap his hand away and tell him to order his own, but it's been a long time and he'd give his brother anything he asked for, except what he wants most of all. Dean can't trust Ruby and he can't allow Sam to turn into something she's molded. He watches him eat the bacon and lick the grease from his lips.   
  
"Has Castiel done anything suspicious yet?" Sam asks. There was a time when he believed Dean's special friend was an angel. Almost immediately upon hearing about him, he defended Castiel while Dean doubted him. Then they met, and things went awry.  
  
"No," Dean says. _Not unless letting me suck his dick counts, Sammy_. "He's been a perfect angel."  
  
"Ha ha."  
  
"So what's the plan for finding these artifacts?" Dean asks. Castiel promised he could help, but maybe he only intended to lead Dean to Sam.  
  
"Ruby has an idea."  
  
"Of course she does."   
  
"Like your guy didn't tell you where to find them?"  
  
"My _guy_?" Dean snorts, though that's not too far off the mark.   
  
"Whatever he is," Sam mumbles.   
  
"You're just jealous."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Mine's prettier."   
  
Sam gives him a wildly disbelieving look for just a moment, then breaks into laughter. Dean smirks down at his toast. He feels like he does when Castiel touches him, weightless and forgiven. The only difference is that, with Sam, he can't forget that he's always in danger of losing this feeling forever.  
  
"We could meet at this museum on the outskirts of town," Sam says. "It's halfway to Mesilla, called the Gadsden Museum. It's dedicated to Albert Jennings Fountain -- I guess your guardian angel filled you in on him?"  
  
"Sure did."   
  
"This is assuming, you know." Sam ducks his eyes, scratches at his elbow. "That you want to work together."  
  
"Sammy," Dean says, sharp enough to get his eyes up fast. "You know that's all I fucking want. The only thing."  
  
"Got a funny way of showing it," Sam mutters. He takes another piece of bacon and eats half of it in one bite.   
  
"Yeah, well." Dean digs into his pancakes, points his fork at Sam. "You've got a funny way of fighting evil with evil, but you don't see me complaining."  
  
Sam narrows his eyes and chuffs in disbelief.  
  
"Actually, you do complain. A lot."  
  
"S'figure of speech," Dean says with a mouth full of pancakes. He watches Sam try not to grin, then kicks him under the table until he laughs. He'd almost forgotten what this was like, the reason he went to hell in the first place, the reason for everything.   
  
*  
  
Dean is antsy on the way back to the motel, thinking about his meeting with Sam and Ruby. They'll meet at the museum at sundown and begin the search for the artifacts. Dean hopes that Castiel will have some information for him when he gets to the room, because he feels lost, and like there is more going on here than he's been told.  
  
He hears voices when he comes to the motel room door, and he draws his gun. He presses his ear to the door, but can't make out any words, though he recognizes Castiel's voice speaking calmly. His heart is pounding when he throws the door open, and he can't decide if he wants to find Castiel betraying him, because it would prove Sam right and dissolve the rift between them, or if he wants to find him as he was when he left, maybe not innocent but at least good.   
  
Castiel is standing on the other side of the room with his arms crossed, and he looks up from a conversation with two people Dean doesn't recognize. One is a chubby woman in her forties with soccer mom hair, and the other is a skinny old man wearing a sweater vest.  
  
"Um." Dean stands in the doorway and tries to figure out which scenario he's come upon. "Okay."  
  
"Dean," Castiel says, as if he's glad he's here. "Did you meet with your brother?"  
  
"Yeah," Dean says. "Who the hell are they?" He shuts the door behind him and walks into the room.  
  
"These are my brothers," Castiel says, gesturing to them proudly, like they're works of art. Dean wonders why they didn't go the usual route of possessing attractive people. Maybe the type who prays to be visited by an angel isn't usually all that cute. Castiel must have snagged the last one, lucky for Dean.  
  
"Have they got names?" Dean asks.  
  
"You are not permitted to know them," the soccer mom says. Dean holds up his hands, tries not to laugh.   
  
"Ho-kay," he says. "My mistake."  
  
All three angels stare at Dean until he's uncomfortable. He looks at Castiel, raises his eyebrows.   
  
"Did I interrupt something?" he asks. "You want me to go?"  
  
"It might be best," the old man says. He's got the voice of a chain smoker, and his teeth are even worse.  
  
"No," Castiel says when Dean takes a step back. "Stay."  
  
The woman mutters something in a language Dean doesn't recognize and Castiel shoots her a look. The old man sighs and sits on the bed.   
  
"How was your meeting with your brother?" Castiel asks. It doesn't escape Dean that he fails to add "and the demon he travels with" or any variation thereof. Maybe the others don't know. Maybe he's doing Dean the favor of keeping his brother's secret from them.  
  
"It was good, actually." Dean is surprised to hear himself say so, but it's true. "We're going out at sundown to look for -- you know." Dean isn't sure how much he should divulge in front of these brothers. He wonders how much they know about what went on in this motel room last night. A flush that raises the temperature of the room spreads from his neck down to his chest.   
  
"Perhaps you should accompany him, Castiel," the woman says. "I do not think he could best his brother in a physical fight."  
  
"Like hell I couldn't!" Dean bellows without thinking, and they all turn to stare at him, the woman with fury, the old man with amusement, and Castiel with his mouth hanging open.   
  
"And anyway we won't be fighting," Dean mutters. "He's -- we want the same thing. We want the seal to stay closed and the artifacts secured."  
  
"He will claim that he knows a way to secure them," the old man says. "Do not listen to him. Only we can ensure that the artifacts are never destroyed."  
  
"He will be insistent upon preserving the artifacts himself, and you may have to battle him physically," the woman says. "This is more important than your sentimentality for what was once your brother."   
  
"Excuse me?" Dean shouts. He jerks his eyes to Castiel's to warn him that this crazy bitch is asking for trouble. "He's still my brother, oh nameless one. And you don't have to tell me how fucking important this is."  
  
The old man chuckles, and Dean whirls on him.  
  
"Something funny, gramps?" he snaps, and the man laughs harder. The woman speaks to Castiel in the language she used before, something like Latin but with a different lilt than what Dean has heard Sam speak during exorcisms.   
  
"Oh, you underestimate them," the old man says through his laughter. He winks when Dean looks at him. "And it's not quite up to us, anyway, is it?"  
  
"He understands the importance of securing the artifacts," Castiel says. "I have -- told him. He will not let his brother take them." He gives Dean a long look after saying so.   
  
"This is unprecedented," the woman says.   
  
"Everything commanded by God once was," Castiel says.  
  
"I was not speaking about God's orders," the woman says. She walks out of the room and the old man gets up with a sigh to follow. He looks back at Castiel before leaving, and they seem to communicate without speaking. Castiel makes an overwhelmed gesture, nods.   
  
"Brothers, eh?" Dean says when they're gone. He reaches out to clamp his hand onto Castiel's shoulder and then thinks better of it, pulls back.   
  
"This is very important, Dean," Castiel says tightly. He's staring into space, seems distracted.  
  
"So you said, about ten thousand times already. I get it okay? I'll get the gun, I'll get the bones, I'll bring them back to you."   
  
"The bond between you and your brother is central to this conflict," Castiel says. "Both sides will try to take advantage of your weakness for each other."  
  
"Sam's not exactly on Lucifer's side."  
  
Castiel sits down on the bed, looks exhausted.   
  
"He was kind to you at the diner?"  
  
"Yeah, of course he was."  
  
"Despite what happened the last time you met?"  
  
"Nothing happened. We disagree on our method. He's still Sam. He's in trouble, I know that, but I'm going to get him out of it. He'll catch on to Ruby soon, she's not smart enough to run this trick much longer, and then I'll step in, guns a'blazin' --"  
  
"Dean." Castiel is finally looking at him, his blue eyes shaded to gray in the dim room. "Be wary of anything that comes easily."  
  
"What the hell does that mean?"  
  
"If your brother was affable and retiring -- if he continues to be so -- it may be a ploy to get your guard down --"  
  
"Look." Dean cuts him off there, can't hear any more without throwing punches. "I'm getting pretty _fucking_ sick and _fucking_ tired of having people tell me what to think about him. You don't know him. I don't care who the fuck you are, _nobody_ knows him like me." The idea that the peace they had in the diner was some sort of con is the worst kind of sacrilege, unthinkable.  
  
"But can't you see, Dean?" Castiel asks, his voice still mild, hands opening. "It's because you feel this way that you are more blind to him than anyone."  
  
"You know what?" Dean's bloods goes thin with rage, and he wants to break something apart with his bare hands. Castiel looks so sad and tired and it's only making things worse.  
  
"Just leave me to deal with it," he says on his way to the door. "My brother is my responsibility. Don't talk to me about him, don't even think about him. You protect your magic seal and mind your own fucking business."  
  
"You are my business," Castiel says, so quiet Dean is surprised he can hear it over the slamming of the door. Maybe he imagined it. Maybe the angel is in his head now, always. It's still possible that Sam is right, that he's not an angel at all.   
  
It's not possible that Castiel is right. Sam would not lie to him with a smile and act like everything is okay. Never mind that he's done it before. This is different. Things have changed.  
  
In the car, Dean can't even remember what he's trying to convince himself to believe. Things are all turned around, positively backward. He squeezes the steering wheel like it's keeping him afloat and drives on the highway toward nothing. He's got a long time before sundown, but it's good to be alone with his only constant, the one thing he can rely on.   
  
"You and me at the end of the world," he says to the car, but he's really talking to the ghost of Sam who lives in the passenger seat, slumped and smiling and ready to follow him anywhere.  
  
*  
  
The Gadsden Museum is a large brick building that reminds Dean of a high school in Texas where he and Sam hunted a poltergeist three years ago. He parks in the back and notices a white rental car on the other side of the lot. Ruby would pick white. Hilarious. Funnier still that they drive rentals instead of just hot wiring something.  
  
"What's wrong?" Sam asks when Dean finds them waiting in the shadows of the museum's side entrance, under a glowing fire exit sign.   
  
"Nothing." Dean makes an offended face. Everything, Sammy. Catch up.  
  
"Where's your angel?" Ruby asks. She glances nervously over Dean's shoulder, and Dean wishes Castiel was standing back there, wearing the trench coat and that look of hellfire he reserves for Ruby.   
  
"I'm sure you'd love to know." Dean gives her a poisonously sarcastic smile. She sniffs in annoyance.  
  
"Let's try to keep the carnage to a minimum," Sam says, stepping between them.  
  
"Of course, shit!" Dean says. "That's the company motto, right? Winchester & Winchester: Let's Try To Keep the Carnage to a Minimum."   
  
"Are you drunk?" Ruby asks.   
  
"You wish."  
  
They break into the museum without much effort, just a tweak to the security system and the slide of a knife across an ancient window lock. Dean follows Sam and Ruby to a glass case full of the effects of the late Alfred Jennings Fountain: combs, knives, a gold pocket watch. They're only interested in his compass, which Ruby believes will lead them to the bones of he and his son, maybe even the Winchester rifle that disappeared along with them, though that's less likely. If it was a truly powerful weapon, it's probably in the hands of one of the demons who killed him, or another demon who killed those demons.  
  
“What the hell was that?” Dean barks when he sees Ruby pocket something else from the display. She freezes, surprised that he was watching out of the corner of his eye.  
  
“What is it?” Sam asks, frowning at her.   
  
“A charm,” Ruby says. “A protective charm.” She gives Sam a meaningful look that makes Dean's eyes burn.   
  
“Oh,” Sam says. He shakes his head. “Right. The charm.”  
  
“Sam,” Dean says tightly, hoping he hasn't forgotten their language. Sam shoots him a dark look, still can't lie when he gets called out like that.  
  
“It has to do with the way we'll keep Lilith away from the artifacts forever,” Sam says.   
  
“Yeah, well,” Dean says, his heart sinking. “We'll cross that bridge when we come to it.”  
  
They get flashlights and shovels from Dean's car and head out toward the desert, following the fluttering silver arrow on the compass. If Sam wasn't here, Dean would be almost certain that it's all a game, Ruby leading him out to the middle of nowhere to kill him. He's got her knife sheathed inside his right pant leg, and he'd finish her off right now if he thought Sam would ever forgive him for it.   
  
"So this guy was a big time hunter," Dean says as they walk, the silence making him uneasy. The compass is glowing slightly, but it might just be a trick of the moonlight.   
  
"Yeah," Sam says. "But he had a day job and a normal family."   
  
Dean suppresses a groan. As if that sort of thing is possible outside of the Old West. Part of him still hopes that when all of this is over, Sam will retire from hunting and lead a relatively normal life. The longer he plays pupil to Ruby, the slimmer the chance of that happening becomes.  
  
"Castiel told me Fountain was a lawyer," Dean says. He punches Sam's arm. "How about that?"  
  
"Yeah, I know," Sam mutters. It's become pretty clear to Dean that Sam doesn't even believe he'll survive the year, let alone go on to resume his legal education and marry a leggy blond. Dean doesn't let it bother him. He can believe enough for the both of them.  
  
"Here," Ruby says when they've come to the edge of a steep ravine. "I'm pretty sure this is where it's pointing."  
  
"Pretty sure?" Dean says. "Let me guess, we have to climb all the way down there in order to find out?"  
  
"I'll go first if that makes you feel better," Ruby says. She pushes the compass into Dean's hand and begins working her way down into the ravine. She's wearing tight jeans and platform sandals, but it doesn't take her long to reach the bottom, her demon-fueled strength working in the possessed girl's skinny arms and legs.   
  
"She hasn't sustained any major damage, has she?" Dean asks. "The girl Ruby's riding on your little adventure?"  
  
"No," Sam says. He looks at Dean like he suddenly doesn't know who he is. "How about your angel? I seem to recall you telling me that you stabbed his host in the heart by way of introduction."  
  
"He's fine," Dean says shakily, though he's not sure. "He's got -- powers."  
  
Sam scoffs and begins to climb down to meet Ruby, who is shouting at them to hurry up. Dean starts to protest, wanted a little more time with his brother out of the demon's earshot, but it's useless. She has a power over him that, at least for now, Dean can't touch. He knew he'd lose Sam to a girl eventually, but hell if he ever expected her to be possessed by a dead witch.   
  
"Take your time, Dean," Ruby taunts as he finally comes to the bottom of the ravine. He out of breath, and his hands are scratched and bleeding in places, his jeans ripped at both knees.   
  
"It's not like thousands of Lilith's minions are searching for these bones or anything," Ruby says. She yanks a shovel out of Sam's hand and goes to the spot in the center of the ravine where the compass, now resting on a boulder, points to with shuttering insistence.   
  
"Thousands of Lilith's minions and you're the one who knew to steal the compass," Dean says. "Funny how that worked out."  
  
"I'm not one of her minions, you goddamn --"  
  
"Enough!" Sam says. Dean is going to continue, but Sam puts one big hand on his shoulder, squeezes. "Let's just dig these things up and get out of here, alright?"  
  
"Yeah," Dean mutters, taking the other shovel. "That's the alternate company motto, eh? Winchester & Winchester: Let's Just Dig These Things Up And --"  
  
"We get it!" Ruby snaps, glowering up from the hole she's working on. Sam is grinning, and Dean looks at him, shrugs.   
  
"Not as catchy, I guess."  
  
They dig for over an hour, Dean periodically checking his watch and groaning. Ruby asks him if he's got a date or something, and a brief dirt flinging fight breaks out before Sam steps in. Dean feels oddly lighthearted, digging up dead folks with his brother at his side, a little sarcastic banter with the evil succubus who is ruining his life. It's the first semi-normal evening he's spent in awhile. He buries the echo of Castiel's warning and tells himself this doesn't feel easy, and that even if it did, Sam is not calculating to make it that way. He can't help keeping Dean calm and happy and hopeful in spite of whatever circumstances they've wandered into. It's what he does best.  
  
The bones of Alfred Jennings Fountain and his son are buried together, but there's no rifle in the shallow grave. Out of breath from the effort of digging and piecing the corpses back together to make sure they haven't missed a bone, Dean, Sam and Ruby sit together on a flat rock near the grave, sucking in air and staring at the skeletons.   
  
"Shouldn't they have scattered the bones everywhere?" Dean asks. "To make it harder to break the seal?"  
  
"They didn't know the bones were incorporated into the creation of the seal," Ruby says. "It's something that Fountain engineered, an insurance policy."  
  
"What, he wanted the seal broken?" Dean asks.  
  
"Well, yeah. Until it is, he and his son's souls are trapped inside. That was the goal of the posse who came after him. He had this." Ruby pulls the charm she took from the museum out of her pocket. It's small and looks like it's made from iron, shaped into a compact, ornate cross.   
  
"This is what made him near invincible," Sam says, taking it. "It lost its power when he died, but if we burn it with the bones, it'll release the souls of Fountain and his son from the seal."  
  
"Uh, yeah." The night darkens around Dean like a wire has been tripped. "And the seal will break."  
  
"No, because his rifle hasn't been destroyed," Ruby says.   
  
"Do you know for sure?" Dean asks. He glares at her, and then Sam, whose eyes have gone big the way they do when she convinces him they can save someone.   
  
"We're almost positive," Sam says.  
  
"Goddammit, Sam, that's not good enough!" Dean stands up as his voice booms in echoes around the ravine. "I'm sorry about these people's souls, but there will be a lot more souls in danger if that seal gets broken."  
  
"Dean, it's just one seal!" Sam holds out his hands, and Dean can't believe this is happening, really and truly never thought that it would.   
  
"It's important," Dean says. He looks up at the mouth of the ravine and swallows hard. He's got no idea how he's going to get these bones out safely and without their help, and would really love to see Castiel standing up with there a plan. He waits, but no one comes. Ruby stands up and unties a fat pouch from her belt.  
  
"You're so shortsighted," she says to Dean. "If we burn the bones, the rifle will still protect the sanctity of the seal. Not only is the gun lost, it's probably still protected by whatever magic allowed it to help Fountain kill demons."  
  
" _Probably_?" Dean shouts. "And what if it's not? What if Lilith already has it, and the only thing that's keeping that seal shut is these bones?"  
  
"Then the damn thing opens!" Sam says, and it burns right through Dean's chest, leaves him hollow.   
  
"It's not the end of the world," Sam says. "This is the only seal we know of that actually has two souls trapped inside it. They're people Dean, and they've been suffering for over a hundred years. I know there's only two of them, but it was just you down there in hell and -- and -- I think maybe you got out because, because I was a little selfish, but I don't regret it, so --"  
  
"Wait a fucking minute." Dean's jaw is so tight he can barely force the words out. Ruby actually looks frightened, or maybe she just really wishes Sam hadn't said that.   
  
"What do you mean you were _selfish_? Sam. What did you do?"  
  
Sam's mouth opens, shuts. He's got his pity magnet face on but Dean isn't budging, hasn't even blinked.   
  
"I think that -- whatever he is, I wanted to believe he was an angel, too, Dean -- I think I might have -- summoned him. I messed with some pretty serious shit, Dean. I -- I was willing to do anything. But I don't regret it. Because you're here. Even if you hate me, even if we've screwed up the world a little. We'll fix it, because you're here."  
  
Dean stares at his brother for a long time, perfectly still while Sam breathes hard and blinks tears. He lets himself wonder for a moment if he would have done the same thing, screwed the world over just to bring his brother back. He hates himself a little when he realizes that maybe he wouldn't have. He would go to hell, ten thousand times with no hope of leaving, but he wouldn't send the world there just to ease his own pain. It's done nothing but cheat and disappoint him, but he was raised trying to save it and that's all he knows how to do.  
  
"I'm just glad Dad's not alive to see this," Dean says. He turns back to the bones, because he can't look at his brother right now, but they're gone. Ruby follows his gaze and gasps.  
  
"What did you do?" Dean asks, drawing the knife from its sheath.   
  
"Stop," Sam begs, his voice snapped in two. "She didn't."  
  
"I didn't touch them!" Ruby says. "I swear."  
  
"That means a hell of a lot, coming from you."  
  
"Dean, it's over," Sam says, like he's relieved that the bones got up and walked away while their backs were turned. "This is -- maybe we shouldn't have come, but I thought --"  
  
"Just go." Dean is going to do something truly violent and soon. He needs to get out of this ravine. He needs to get away from his brother.   
  
"Dean --"  
  
"I don't know who you are anymore." He can't look at him when he admits this, can't say his name. "She wanted to break this seal and you were going to let her."  
  
"It's not that simple!" Ruby shouts. "You get half the story from that bounty hunter who calls himself an angel and you think you know everything!"  
  
"Get her away from me, I swear to God." Dean sits back down and puts his head in his hands. He's failed all around. The bones are gone. Sam is right in front of him but lost. The angel he keeps expecting to rush in and salvage things might be a golem Sam recruited from hell.   
  
He hears the sound of boots scaling rock and glances up just enough to see his brother working his way up the ravine. He's still crying but trying to hide it. Ruby watches him get halfway up and looks back to Dean.   
  
"You're not always right," she says. "Try to keep that in mind."  
  
"I'm going to kill you," Dean says, as evenly as he can manage. "With your own fucking knife."  
  
"Please." Ruby rolls her eyes. "If that were true you'd have done it by now."  
  
Dean watches her climb up to meet Sam, who is staring down at him, his face wrecked under the moonlight. Maybe he was expecting a hug and Dean's gratitude for doing God knows what to get him out of hell. There was a second or two when Dean considered offering both. What stopped him was Castiel's warning.   
  
This is not supposed to be easy.  
  
*  
  
  
It takes Dean almost an hour to climb out of the ravine. He keeps slipping, his hands raw and throbbing, and he's getting more and more angry that Castiel hasn't shown up to help him. Maybe it was all a distraction. Maybe the "angels" are back in Las Cruces working on the end times. When he finally reaches the flat landscape of the desert, he's lost track of who's conning him and why. He just wants to get back to his motel room, down half the bottle of tequila and sleep forever.   
  
Getting back to the car takes another hour, and he's stumbling by the time he finally finds it. There are tire tracks where Sam and Ruby's white rental was parked. Maybe he shouldn't have come down so hard on his brother. Maybe he should let him shake the world like a snow globe and watch things fall where they may, but he's too haunted by his father and the angel and all the people Lilith has killed so far. He knows that if he ends up haunted by Sam, his voice will overpower all the others, though last time he was dead the whole world went quiet.  
  
He's so tired of thinking about when and how the two of them will die, he can barely keep his eyes open. He drives back to Las Cruces, stupidly slow. He's afraid to return to Castiel and tell him that he lost the bones, but he doesn't have anywhere else to go. He wonders sometimes if that's why Sam stays with Ruby, and if that's why he didn't kill her when he had the chance. So his brother won't be lonely.  
  
It's two o'clock in the morning by the time he reaches the motel. He parks and sits in his car for awhile, guilty about the dirt and sand he's gotten on the front seat. Tomorrow he'll wash her, inside and out. Just the thought makes him feel better already, and he sits for a little while longer, pretending he's not afraid to face Castiel.  
  
When he finally goes to the room, the door is unlocked. He staggers inside and fills up with knee-buckling relief when he finds Castiel sitting on the bed and wringing his hands, nobody else around. He locks the door behind him and walks past Castiel without looking at him, unscrews the tequila bottle and takes a sip. He winces as it goes down, tries not to cough.   
  
"Don't you want some water?" Castiel asks.  
  
"I fucked up, dude." Dean puts the bottle down hard. "The bones. I don't know what happened. Maybe Ruby --"  
  
"We've ensured that they will never be destroyed," Castiel says. "You did well, Dean."  
  
"Wait. What?"  
  
"You discovered them and exposed them to the light of the moon. We did the rest. Here, let me get you something better to drink."  
  
"So, wait." Dean watches him go to the bathroom and fill a Dixie cup with tap water. "Does this mean -- we're done? This seal can't be broken, so to hell with it if the others are?"  
  
"Hopefully." Castiel hands him the water and touches his dirty cheek. It's enough to send shock waves down through him, though they're dull and buried under his exhaustion.   
  
"Hopefully? That's all you got?"  
  
"Lilith will at least try to work a way around Fountain's protective measures. Until then, we must stop her from breaking other seals."  
  
"Right." Dean lets out his breath, relieved. There's still work to do. As long as he's at least semi-distracted from what is happening to his brother, he won't lose his mind. He drinks the water and looks up at Castiel, can't decide if he's relieved or worried that he's only sure he's an angel when their eyes lock together like this.   
  
"You did well," Castiel says again.   
  
"Did Sam summon you?" Dean asks.   
  
"No, Dean. God called for me. Partially in response to what your brother was doing in your absence. He was going down a dark road. You can still help him. That's why you're here."   
  
He traces the line of Dean's jaw with his thumb, and draws his hand over his cheek to cup his face. Dean tries to keep his eyes open, can't. He turns into Castiel's hand and sighs against it.   
  
"Do not be distressed," Castiel says. "Now was not the time to reclaim him. But the time will come."  
  
Dean has the feeling he's being lied to. He's already been informed that if he fails to save his brother, it will be handled less diplomatically by the angels. But he wants to believe Castiel, to hold onto him and shudder helpless under his hands, and he hopes to God that Ruby doesn't make Sam feel this way, because if she does he'll never get between them.   
  
"Come here," Castiel says, pulling Dean up from the bed. He lets himself be pulled. Castiel brings him into the bathroom and leans him against the wall, turns the shower on. He takes their clothes off in symmetrical fashion: unbuttons Dean's shirt, then his own. Dean leans forward to kiss him while he's working on his belt. He tastes like candy, sugar and fake citrus, and he must have eaten from the bag they bought in Dodge City for lunch. Dean breathes hard into his mouth and strokes clumsy hands through his hair, whines with gratitude when Castiel's arms wind around his back.  
  
Dean has never really turned himself over to anyone, but he tells himself now that he's so tired he doesn't have a choice. It's been a long day. A pretty fucked up year. He lets Castiel help him into the shower and draw him under the water. When his soapy hands rub up the back of Dean's neck and down over his shoulders, he just shuts his eyes and tries not to hum with contentment.   
  
"Much has been asked of you," Castiel says, running a hand across Dean's chest. He's got one arm still braced tight behind the small of his back, holding him up.   
  
"It's okay," Dean says, though it's not really. He feels hypnotized, dizzy with arousal. Castiel reaches up to wash his face, careful and thorough like he's restoring a holy painting. Dean shuts his eyes and leans into the water to rinse the soap away, feels the dirt run off of him like a blessing has been bestowed.   
  
"I was kind of pissed off at you earlier," Dean says, wiping his eyes clear.  
  
"I know."  
  
"You could have helped me out there."  
  
"You were strong enough to do what we needed without my help."   
  
Dean didn't feel particularly strong when he was wandering through the desert, biting his lip to keep from breaking into a Sam-related sob fest. He feels even weaker now, lolling in Castiel's grip and dropping his head to his shoulder to rest against his wet skin. He shudders when Castiel's fingers move slowly down his back. He's hard enough to feel his heartbeat in the head of his cock, but too surrendered to do anything but wait for Castiel's direction.  
  
"You're so important, Dean," he says. He licks Dean's ear, and his hand slides down over his ass, pulling him apart before rubbing back up again. Dean moans and spreads his legs, his heels squeaking against the plastic tub.   
  
"You're everything," Castiel says before biting a hot row of kisses down his neck.   
  
"Don't tell me that." Dean tips his head to the side so Castiel can get a better angle. He sucks at the space between Dean's neck and shoulder like Dean asked for it out loud.   
  
"What does this feel like for you?" Dean asks. "I want to know, I want you to tell me."  
  
Castiel pushes him onto the wall of the shower and leans all his weight against him. Dean absorbs it gratefully and waits for his answer.   
  
"I don't know to describe the way things feel," Castiel says. "It's not something I've ever had to do."  
  
"Try," Dean begs, and he wraps a hand around Castiel's erection to inspire him. Castiel lets his mouth fall open and his head rock back, then recovers enough to put his face against the side of Dean's head, his hips twitching just slightly into the rhythm of Dean's hand.   
  
"It feels like," he breathes, hot in Dean's ear. "Like being born. Like dying."  
  
"You don't know what that feels like." Dean smirks into his hair, kind of likes the answer anyway. "And it ain't like dying. Trust me."   
  
"It is," Castiel says, pulling back. He touches Dean's face again, can't seem to stop doing that. Dean doesn't really mind. "It's so -- it's -- it's -- _ah_ , wait." He puts his hand on Dean's wrist to stop him from finishing him off. Dean smirks, and Castiel laughs, maybe for the first time ever.  
  
"This is the most important thing I've ever done," he says. He looks kind of stoned, which gives Dean a ridiculous feeling of accomplishment.  
  
"Getting jerked off by me in a shower?"  
  
"You, Dean," he says. He cards his fingers through Dean's wet hair so that it spikes up between them. "You're my -- and. I didn't know it would be like this."  
  
"Me either," Dean says. His ribs hurt and it feels good but there's something building in him that has to come out. "And I want -- I want --"  
  
Castiel nods in understanding and turns to shut the shower off. He gropes for a towel and dries Dean's hair, his shoulders and back, chest and stomach. Dean mashes his lips together to keep from begging when he rubs the towel over his cock, light and careful like it's especially fragile.  
  
They seem to arrive in the bed without the use of their feet. Dean doesn't even know what dimension he's in anymore. Castiel looks sunburned all over, water still beaded on his shoulders and dripping from his hair. Dean thinks he might regret this but can't shake the feeling that he's going to die if he doesn't have Castiel inside him, as deep as he can get him and as long as he can stand it and soon.  
  
"I've wanted this," Castiel says as he slicks himself with burn ointment from a travel size bottle Dean managed to fumble from the pocket of his jacket, which is crumpled on the floor by the bed along with most of his earthly possessions. Dean could get off just watching him touch himself and listening to him admit that he wants this, but getting off is only a secondary objective at this point. He needs contact, needs to get so close it _hurts_ , and he thinks that once he's had Castiel inside him he'll finally know for sure where he came from, who he really is.   
  
"Don't hold back," Dean growls as Castiel slides into him, setting lights off behind Dean's eyelids, his whole body tense and on fire. He can't decide if this is terrifying or comforting or just so fucking good that it defies description.   
  
"I --" Castiel starts to say. He catches his breath when Dean flexes around him. "I don't think I'd even know how to hold back."  
  
Dean knows this should scare him, but he only pulls Castiel closer and pushes a whimpered sigh into his mouth. He trusts him. It's clear now, waves of something he doesn't even know how to name filling him like the rolling tip of an orgasm that never breaks. He feels guilty now for trying to make Castiel describe what he does to him. Dean has no words, not even dirty talk, can hardly muster a moan. Their breath mingles as Castiel begins to move inside him, and it's enough, warm and wet, their lips bumping together when they lose even the coordination required to kiss. Dean keeps his eyes open and watches Castiel's flicker shut. If he had any words for this he would break into song. As it is, he just comes all over both their chests, and squeezes himself around Castiel as it shudders out of him, until he hears something he doesn't even recognize as a scream, his ears ringing, senses blown out, vision spotted. Castiel's cock pulses inside him, and Dean clings to the thought of that hot come filling him up, left behind like another mark. Dean's muscles contract greedily as he begins to pull out, and they roll onto their sides, Castiel still inside him. Dean gets no glimpse of the vessel this time. The angel stares back at him, in awe.   
  
Dean gets him water. He doesn't notice until he tries walking that he's sore as hell in a completely unfamiliar way, but it doesn't bother him. Come drips down his leg and he wipes it off with the sheets like it's nothing new. Castiel drinks a Dixie cup full of water and Dean brings him more.  
  
"You okay?" Dean asks. Castiel breathes out something like a laugh. Dean touches his sweaty cheek, strokes his thumb just under his eye. Castiel stares at him in the same grateful way he did when he brought water.   
  
"I'm okay," he says.   
  
"Do you want to sleep?" Dean asks.  
  
"Yes. Tomorrow we'll leave Las Cruces."   
  
"Where do we go next?"  
  
"I'm awaiting orders." Castiel lies back on the pillows and reaches for Dean. He slides onto him obligingly, kind of likes this part, too. Who the hell'd have thought. Castiel smells like bed sheets and soap and candy and everything in the world that's worth saving. Also like sex, and like Dean.   
  
"You heard of Vegas?" Dean asks.   
  
"I don't think so."  
  
"Good." Dean grins and settles onto him, considers TV and tequila but is really too tired to reach for anything else. "I'll educate you."   
  
Castiel rolls toward him, trying to keep his eyes open and barely succeeding. Dean wonders why they sent him and not one of his brothers.  
  
"Did they warn you about me?" Dean asks. "Or that -- this might happen?"  
  
"This?"  
  
"This," Dean says, putting his hand on Castiel's shoulder, over the spot where he left a hand print on Dean. "That you and your vessel might end up getting carnal because of our -- bond, or whatever."  
  
Castiel shakes his head and draws closer. He loses the battle with his eyelids but still attempts to answer.   
  
"It's not a concern to anyone but humans," he says, his voice getting thicker with every word. "Especially when it's an act of love."  
  
Dean watches him finally sink into sleep, and pulls a hand through his hair, hoping he'll wake up again. He's so tired he can't even muster the energy to try for sleep, though he knows the dreams of hell won't come as long as Castiel is stretched out beside him.  
  
He watches shadows from the parking lot slide across the ceiling and thinks about the people out there who have no idea what's at stake with every single day. He's glad, maybe selfishly, glad even that Sam and Ruby think Castiel is some sort of impostor. He loves Dean, he said so, _an act of love_ , and he's not going anywhere. If it has to be a secret, Dean can live with that. Most of his life has been secret so far.   
  
Dean dreams of all the things that he wants to hear out loud. _God chose you, you're worthy, He sent you this gift, you can keep him if you serve God well_. In the dream, it's Sam who is telling him these things.   
  
“What about you?” Dean asks. He's not sure if he's asking why he can't have Sam, too, or just trying to figure out what will become of him now.   
  
Sam smiles, all smug and sad, like he knows something Dean doesn't.  
  
“I'll be around,” he promises, and for Dean, for now, it's good enough.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Dean has been dreaming about Jesus. He's quiet in Dean's dreams, bearded and mellow like an old hippie. He doesn't do much, just hangs around wearing sweaters and khaki pants with holes in the knees, looking at things contemplatively and ignoring Dean's questions.   
  
"Do you, like, want something, pal?" Dean finally asks in the midst of a dream where they're walking together on a boardwalk near a closed-down carnival. Jesus sighs and touches Dean's face, pats his cheek.   
  
"Wake up," he says, but when Dean does, it's Castiel who has asked him to.  
  
Dean blinks and groans, writhes sleepily. Castiel is stretched along his side, his hand open over Dean's bare chest. Touching him is like being held between sleep and reality, lucid but too calming and warm to feel like anything of consequence.   
  
"Are you making me have Jesus dreams?" Dean asks. He yawns and shuffles closer, hums happily when Castiel's hand slides up to cover the print he left on Dean's shoulder.  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"Nothing. Never mind. What time is it?"  
  
"It's early. I have an errand to run."  
  
Dean snorts. "Okay. Fine. Wait, wait, wait." He pulls Castiel back to him when he begins to shift away. He's dressed in an undershirt and striped boxer shorts, and Dean gives him a big, dumb grin, still half-asleep.  
  
"I'm coming with you," Dean says. Castiel touches Dean's forehead, the tiny pressure of his fingertips spooling down through his nerves like hot bathwater, tugging him back toward sleep. He lets his eyes fall shut and tries to remember where they are. In a motel, somewhere. The usual.  
  
"You may join me if you like," Castiel says. Dean laughs and rolls against him. It's been awhile since they were apart. He's starting to think that one or both of them might drop dead if they try to separate. Of course, he once felt that way about his brother.  
  
"Okay," Dean says. "Let me just do this one thing."   
  
Castiel sighs impatiently, but he lets Dean climb on top of him and kiss his neck. His skin smells strongly of shaving cream, and Dean is careful to avoid the places on his face where he nicked himself with the safety razor Dean got for him. Dean has always shaved with a knife, but that was out of the question for Castiel, who is still clumsy in his vessel's body.  
  
"Why haven't these healed?" Dean asks, touching a tiny bubble of blood at Castiel's jawline.   
  
"Sometimes it takes a little longer," Castiel says. Dean stares down at him, frowns. This is wearing on him and they both know it. He's pouring all of his energy into Dean, giving it away in buckets. Yesterday, Dean ate five cheeseburgers for lunch and accidentally punched a hole in a suspected witch's door when he was only trying to knock. He's become a better shot, a peerless pool player, and he's both hungry all the time and more satisfied with the taste of food than he's ever been while sober. Even his dick feels bigger and heavier, but maybe that's just because he's hard all the time.  
  
"This is bad, isn't it?" Dean asks. He starts to slide off of Castiel, but Castiel stops him, puts two steady hands on his sides.   
  
"They're just cuts, Dean," he says. "They will heal."  
  
He didn't answer Dean's question, but neither of them need to hear it out loud. It's become fairly clear that what they're doing is dancing the line between glorious and wicked. It's the same thing Dean lambasted Sam for doing with Ruby. Almost.   
  
Still, it feels too indefinably _right_ to stop, so Dean only leans down to push his choppy breath into Castiel's mouth, kisses him until he can taste shaving cream and toothpaste and all the things that make Castiel feel deceptively human. But there is a human there, beneath Dean on the bed, his chest shuddering against Dean's as their cocks drag together. Dean sees snatches of the guy sometimes, when Castiel is completely surrendered to earthly pleasures; suddenly there will be a surprised gasp or a lazy smile that doesn't belong to the angel. Dean has come to know him well, and he can see the seams when they show. Castiel claims the vessel wants Dean's hands on him, that it's comforting, and Dean would doubt his word if he didn't feel almost worshipful as he pushes Castiel's undershirt away and kisses down his vessel's trembling stomach. This always feels like something he _should_ do, a necessary ritual, but it's hard to separate that feeling from what he simply wants, so badly that his hands shake.  
  
"You like that?" Dean asks when he's inside him, the vessel, the angel, neither or both. " _Oh_ fuck yeah -- you -- you do, don't you?"  
  
Dean can never keep his mouth shut. He needs to bring this down to a level he understands, to integrate lines familiar from porn, because he's afraid being close like this could blow him straight off the face of the earth if he handed himself over completely. Castiel never answers his prompts, only tightens his muscles around Dean's cock, which makes Dean curse unintelligibly and forget to make it sound sexy.  
  
The sun comes up while they're recovering, Dean catching his breath with Castiel curled behind him, his arm snug across Dean's chest. Dean has told himself a thousand times that he'll never do this when they're in a hurry again. He always wants to sleep for days. His stomach growls and Castiel sniffs in amusement.   
  
"We should go," he says, breath warm on Dean's shoulder. Dean is drooling onto the sheets. He's so tired. Too comfortable.  
  
"Five more minutes," he says.  
  
Castiel sits up and rubs his thumb over the tiny hairs on the back of Dean's neck. Dean would purr if he could. It's so easy to forget the end of the world and everything that's gone wrong when he's being coddled, looked after like he's sacred, worthy of being rescued by an angel. It's easy to forget that he isn't worthy or sacred or even close to being the kind of person who deserves this.  
  
"It's time," Castiel says before Dean can fall asleep again. "I'm going. Are you coming?"  
  
"I'm up, I'm up." Dean rolls over and rubs at his eyes. The dim light through the curtains over the front window shines behind Castiel's silhouette, and Dean sits up quickly, doesn't like the look of him in any sort of abstract, light pouring around him. He doesn't like to remember that Castiel is an employee who might be called back from this business trip anytime.   
  
"So where are we going?" Dean asks as Castiel dresses in his traditional ensemble, shirt and tie, wrinkled pants.   
  
"Maine," Castiel says.   
  
"Oh yeah?" Dean gets out of bed, groans with the effort and stretches until his back cracks. "What's in Maine?"  
  
"My vessel's home."  
  
"So?" Dean says, a nervous suspicion building in his chest. "Why are we going there?"  
  
"Because it's almost Christmastime."   
  
"Uh? And?"  
  
"And his children miss their father." Castiel puts on his trench coat and walks toward the window. He pulls the curtains back and peeks out at the scabby motel parking lot like he's expecting a sign.   
  
"So what?" Dean scoffs and begins packing his duffel, wearing only boxers and socks, confused and upset by this development. As if things aren't already complicated enough. "You're going to pretend to be their dad so they can have a nice Christmas? That's -- actually really creepy."  
  
"No, Dean. I could never pretend. I'm sure my attempt would only frighten them. I will leave my vessel for a few days. I have business elsewhere that does not require me to maintain this form."  
  
"Let me get this straight," Dean says, fuming. "God wants you to take a fucking _Christmas vacation_ so your vessel can have a little quality time with the fam?"  
  
"Don't be frightened," Castiel says. Dean scoffs and punches the clothes he's stuffing into his duffel. He wants to go nuts at the suggestion that Castiel's absence could be frightening, but there's no point in trying to fool him. He knows what Dean's head is like when he's alone.   
  
"I'm not _frightened_ ," Dean says anyway. "I'm pissed off. It doesn't make any sense."  
  
"What doesn't?"  
  
"You going out of your way to 'comfort' this guy! How do you even know he wants to go home for the holidays?"  
  
"He doesn't. It's his children's wishes I'm honoring by sending him there, not his own."   
  
Dean stares at Castiel for awhile, still undressed, like a petulant kid trying to delay the start of his school day.   
  
"Haven't we got bigger problems?" Dean asks. "Doesn't God have better things to worry about?"  
  
"Of course He does. This is my decision, Dean. I know it will be hard for you, but --"  
  
"Look, I got no problem sacrificing for the sake of some kids," Dean says, embarrassed by the disappointment that is crushing him flat. He'll have to sleep alone. He won't be dreaming of Jesus while Castiel is away, that's for damn sure.  
  
"I know that, Dean," Castiel says. "I don't want to be apart from you, but we need -- some distance."   
  
"I whole-fucking-heartedly agree," Dean says, turning his back to Castiel. His insides are all blackened, ash and bone. Castiel is worried, too. They're turning into something unholy. They have to stop, but all Dean wants to do is burrow closer, hold on tight.  
  
*  
  
It's a ten hour drive to the small town in Maine where Robert Buchanan lived with his wife and daughters before Castiel answered his prayers and possessed him. Dean drives faster than he needs to, and Castiel sits in slumped silence, watching the highway scenery. Shared unhappiness radiates between them until it's almost cozy. Dean has had plenty of drives like this with Sam.  
  
"Anything come across your radar about my brother recently?" Dean asks when they stop for lunch in Massachusetts.  
  
"No," Castiel says. "I'm sorry."  
  
"Don't be sorry."  
  
"I'd have liked for you to spend Christmas with him."  
  
"What? Why? You know she'd be with him."  
  
"Yes, well." Castiel drinks from his coffee cup. He used to take it black, but lately he's been developing a fondness for sugar. "It's unfortunate."  
  
"Yeah." Dean scowls, reaches for the check. "It is."   
  
When they finally reach Maine, the sun is setting, and it's dark when they arrive in Robert's neighborhood. Dean parks outside the small house that Castiel indicated, and looks at him for the first time since lunch. He seems curious and sad, but that's nothing new.   
  
"Where will you go while I'm gone?" Castiel asks.   
  
"I don't know," Dean mutters. "Atlantic City."  
  
"I'd prefer it if you stayed here and kept an eye on my vessel. I don't want him punished for his service to me if demons should locate him while I'm away."  
  
"Fine," Dean says. "I'll stay here and stalk him. Merry fucking Christmas to me." He's actually incredibly relieved to have a job to do.  
  
"Dean." Castiel reaches for him, and Dean almost wants to flinch away, feeling abandoned and afraid that this is just a sneak peek of the long life ahead of him after Castiel leaves for good. Castiel touches Dean's cheek, his ear, his hair, his mouth. He seems like he's struggling with something. Dean leans into his touch, though the security in it is bittersweet, since he'll soon be gone.  
  
"Take care of him," Castiel says, meaning the vessel.   
  
"I will."   
  
"He'll be -- confused when I'm gone."  
  
"What? He doesn't know you're leaving?"  
  
"Of course he knows, Dean. Just -- look after him."  
  
"I said I would." Dean turns away angrily, and Castiel's hand slides from his shoulder.   
  
"I'm going now," Castiel says. "Shut your eyes."   
  
Dean does as he asked, his arms folded over his chest. He feels like someone has told him that all of the oxygen in the world will be gone in a few seconds, and he'll just have to make do without it. He and Sam have the same basic problem. They can't operate without an overly important ally, without someone within arm's reach who knows what the world is really like, who knows everything.  
  
"Take care of yourself, Dean," Castiel says softly, and then there's a sound like a bedsheet being unfurled with a snap, and he's gone. Dean can feel it in the air of the car, and hear it in the clumsy, panting breath of the man beside him in the passenger seat. Only a man. Dean is afraid to open his eyes and see the face he's come to associate with his angel without Castiel's pale fire burning beneath it.  
  
"Dean?" the man -- Robert -- Rob, apparently -- gasps out. Dean feels his cheeks heat. He's about to meet the man he's been fucking for the past month and a half.  
  
"That's me," Dean says, and he opens his eyes. Rob is staring at him with open terror, as if Dean is holding him hostage. His posture is better than Castiel's; he effortlessly inhabits his body. His cheeks are red and his eyes don't look quite as blue as they did ten seconds ago.   
  
"Uh, nice to meet you?" Dean says, hating the burn across his own cheeks. Rob's mouth is hanging open like he can't decide where to begin.  
  
"Yeah," he says. "I'm gonna get out of the car."  
  
And then he does, which seems strange for some reason. He walks not toward his house but away from it, down the street. Dean curses and throws the driver's side door open, follows him.  
  
"Wait up," Dean shouts. "You heard what he said. I have to look after you."  
  
"Yeah." Rob is staring at the road, walking fast. "Right. Okay."  
  
"Are you alright?" Dean asks. "You look like you're freaking out."  
  
"I'm not freaking out," Rob says, and Dean has to bite back a laugh. His voice is completely different from Castiel's, though he's using the same vocal chords and his tone has the same gravely edge. Castiel manages to be both soft and commanding when he speaks, but Rob is a wreck, all breathless and exasperated.   
  
"Okay, so, where are you going?" Dean asks.  
  
Rob looks around like he's searching for his getaway car, pulls his hands through his hair. Dean still has residual desire for Castiel pulsing through him, and he wants to take Rob into his arms, tell him everything is going to be okay. He was fucking the hell out of the guy just ten hours ago, but on this dark suburban street they are suddenly just strangers.   
  
"Are you really okay with -- everything?" Dean asks. "Or is that just something Castiel says to make me feel better?"  
  
"What do you mean?" Rob asks.   
  
"I mean, uh, like, you know. This morning. That -- stuff -- we did."  
  
Dean can see Rob's breath, and he wishes he'd brought a better coat. He had one at some point -- did Sam take off with it? Did he leave it in a motel room? Rob makes a noise like he's going to throw up and runs forward, throws his arms around Dean's shoulders.  
  
"Oh, Dean!" he says, like they haven't seen each other in years. Dean scoffs in surprise and pats his back gingerly.  
  
"Okay there," he says, for lack of anything better. "Just -- oh!" He coughs in surprise when Rob squeezes him tight, almost choking him.  
  
"I don't want to go in there," Rob says. "I love them, but I can't explain what's happened to me. I can't deal with all of this at once."  
  
"You don't have to tell them about the whole angel thing," Dean says. He tries to politely pry Rob off of him when a car passes, but he won't budge.   
  
"But what will I tell them about you?" Rob asks. Dean raises an eyebrow.  
  
"Um, nothing? I'll wait outside. You can have your pancakes and stockings and whatever you people do, and I'll just keep an eye out --"  
  
"I can't go in there alone," Rob says.   
  
"Well, I'm gonna be a little hard to explain."  
  
"Please, Dean." Rob leans back to give him a pathetic look. His lips are trembling. "It's hard enough to be away from him."   
  
"Him?"  
  
"Castiel. It -- hurts -- without him."  
  
Dean scratches his head, doesn't know what to say. So Rob is a bit of a weirdo. He should have guessed as much; the guy was praying to be possessed by angels, after all.  
  
"Look, it's late," Dean says. "Maybe we should just have a drink, you can get some sleep, and then we'll figure out how to, uh, reintroduce you tomorrow."   
  
Rob smiles slowly, his eyes lighting as if Dean just told him he loves him and won't let anything happen to him. Which is, sure, maybe what he was trying to say, though he doesn't know this guy at all, not really.  
  
*  
  
They find a motel with a liquor store nearby; funny how often that happens. Dean searches the shelves for the appropriate drink for spending time with a relative stranger whose balls have slapped against your ass on regular occasions, and he feels oddly cheerful. Maybe it's the tinsel strung on the turnstile or the Charlie Brown Christmas music playing over the loudspeakers. He selects vodka and Miller High Life, and Rob nods in approval when he holds them up.   
  
"I'm actually not much of a drinker," Rob tells Dean as they head for the cash register.  
  
"You don't say."   
  
Dean pays for the booze and they walk through the biting cold toward the hotel, neither of them dressed appropriately for the weather. The ground is crusted with old snow, and as midnight approaches the air is so sharp that breathing it feels like swallowing crystals. The rank heat of their cheap motel room is a welcome respite, and Rob moans in gratitude once they're inside, rubs his hands together as Dean locks the door.   
  
"Aren't you used to this shit?" Dean asks. "How long have you lived in Maine?"  
  
"All my life," Rob says, his teeth chattering. "But the world feels – colder, now. And anyway, I usually have a real jacket and hat on in December."  
  
"Hmm." Dean finds Dixie cups in the bathroom and fills one with vodka, hands it to Rob. "That'll warm you up."  
  
Rob smiles warily and drinks, winces. Dean laughs and pours some for himself. They ate dinner hours ago and he's hungry again, but it's too cold to go back out. He flips on the TV and sits on one of the room's double beds, does another shot of vodka. He should be drinking coffee. He doesn't want to try and sleep without Castiel around to watch over him.  
  
"So," Dean says when they've been sitting in silence for awhile, staring at Christmas-themed reruns of old shows like Jag and Night Court. "What's it like? Being possessed by an angel?"  
  
Rob looks down at his hands as if this is an intensely personal question. Dean is going to tell him he doesn't have to answer, but Rob speaks before he can issue a retraction.  
  
"Can I come sit by you?" he asks.  
  
Dean feels a flush move across his chest like he's swallowed another shot. He nods, stupidly glad that Rob wants to come closer, and uncomfortable with it at the same time. Rob sits beside him, still wearing his coat and tie. Dean wants to take them off, has to remind himself that this is not Castiel, who always looks at Dean with childish wonder as he undresses him. This is a man with a past and a mind of his own. This is a married man with two kids who are asking Santa to bring him back.   
  
"It doesn't feel like being possessed," Rob says, his voice quiet and reverent in a way that reminds Dean of Castiel. "It feels like realizing some better part of you. Like figuring out what you're supposed to do. The angel -- he doesn't pull me around, I don't feel helpless. I feel guided."  
  
Dean looks back to the television set. He flips around until he finds something that looks familiar, then recognizes it as an old episode of Quantum Leap.  
  
"My brother used to love this cheesy show," he says, a feeling like stitches popping in his chest. "I gave him hell for it. I --"  
  
He stops talking, swallows hard. Rob is watching him like he's waiting for more. Dean gets up and goes to the side table where he left the beers, cracks one open for both of them.   
  
"Here's to avoiding our families," he says when he comes back, and Rob's face falls, but he accepts the beer can, clicks it against Dean's. "Hell of a way to spend the holidays," Dean says, and he drinks.  
  
"I'll see them tomorrow," Rob says. "I just have to -- think."  
  
"Yeah," Dean mumbles, climbing back onto the bed. "I been there."  
  
Rob studies his beer can for awhile, like there are secret messages written on it. Dean stares at the TV, watches Dr. Sam Beckett set things right that once went wrong. Dean always preferred Al the hologram, who was constantly chasing tail and often screwed things up by encouraging Sam to take the easy way out.  
  
"I have missed them," Rob says. "My daughters of course, and my wife."  
  
"So why'd you marry her if you really like dudes?" Dean asks, irritated with him. Rob has the option to drive back to his house pull his loved ones into his arms, but he's sitting here, wasting time with Dean, who would do anything to see Sam just for a few minutes.   
  
"I couldn't even admit to myself that I did, back when we were engaged," Rob says. "I just thought I didn't like sex as much as most guys. I figured, it's different for everyone, right? I would notice men, think about them, but I convinced myself that I just wanted them as friends. Then Pete came in for an interview at the bank and oh, God -- I could barely listen to his answers to my questions, he was so -- I couldn't wait to hire him. I would get so excited about going to work after that, I'd lay awake at night just thinking about the next day, making plans to ask him to lunch, thinking about what I would wear to impress him. I just -- I --"  
  
Rob shuts his eyes, shakes his head.   
  
"When I finally admitted to myself that I was in love with Pete, the guilt was like a cancer," Rob says. "I prayed every night to God, begged him to take away the feelings, but in my heart I didn't really want him to. I realized this. It felt good to want Pete so much, even though I knew it was bad, wrong, and unfair to my family. I told myself that if I could just manage a single sincere request to rid me of my unnatural desire, God would grant me that mercy. I don't know if I achieved it or not -- but I thought I did when Castiel came. Then -- he took me to you, and -- and --"  
  
"And what?" Dean asks. Rob's blubbering makes him miss Castiel's confidence all the more, though he does feel sorry for him, maybe, a little.  
  
"And I started to wonder what my heart had really prayed for," Rob says. He won't look at Dean, just stares at his beer can, still determined to study it rather than drink from it.   
  
"You trying to say you prayed for me?" Dean asks, disbelieving. He wonders how much Rob knows about him beyond what he's seen with his own eyes, how much Castiel has shared.  
  
"I don't know," Rob says. He clears his throat, seems embarrassed, and heads for the bathroom muttering about taking a shower. Dean gets another beer and watches Golden Girls. He tries not to think about Rob in the shower, nervous and needy, that body Dean knows so well blushed pink by the hot water. It would be so nice to take off his clothes and lean against him under the spray, arms locked around his chest. They wouldn't even have to fool around; Dean isn't particularly in the mood for it. He jumps when he hears the whine of the shower being turned off, and flips the channel to a nature show about bees.  
  
"It's late," Rob says when he comes out wearing a towel, holding it tightly around his waist though Dean has already seen everything. "I guess I'll get in bed."  
  
"Here," Dean says. He stands up, and realizes for the first time that he's kind of hammered. "Let me get you something to wear." He stumbles toward his duffel and hunts through it until he comes up with a sweatshirt and some clean boxers.   
  
"Thank you," Rob says when Dean offers them, and there's something so earnest in his voice, as if Dean is giving him a kidney, that Dean wants to drop the clothes and throw his arms around him instead. He keeps wanting to turn him into Castiel; it's so hard to remember that he's someone else, just a random bumpkin along for the ride.   
  
He's afraid to sleep, so he tries to keep watching TV after Rob tucks himself under the blankets in his own bed. His eyes start drooping fairly quickly, the warm fuzz of the alcohol pulling him under. His attempts to fight it are only half-hearted, and soon he's rolling onto his side, still dressed, as if his daytime clothes will protect him for the last vestiges of real sleep.   
  
The dreams start off bad and get worse. The slice of a knife, memories of the pain real enough to pierce through the dream and cut him open again. Someone screaming nearby, someone he _can't help_ , though he keeps struggling as if maybe he can. Finally the nightmares land on Sam, the golden ticket, his maniacal laughter like blood pouring out of Dean's ears.  
  
"Don't!" he screams when he wakes. He grabs the arm of his attacker, but it's just Rob. They're both on the floor between their beds, Dean soaked in sweat and panting hard, Rob white-faced and gaping at him, one hand still clutched around his shoulder.   
  
"You were dreaming," Rob says, his voice small and cautious, as if he's considering bolting from the room.  
  
"Yeah, I figured that out, thanks," Dean says, shoving his hand away. He climbs back into bed and punches his pillow, blinks away tears of frustration. He'll never sleep again, not without Castiel. Some part of him must have gotten left behind in hell, and he's able to disconnect from it during the day, but not at night. Castiel will finish his business on earth one way or another, and Dean will return to hell when he's gone, every night, every time his head hits a pillow.  
  
"Sorry," Rob says, moving unsteadily back into his own bed.  
  
"Don't apologize!" Dean roars, and he feels bad when Rob flinches. He opens his mouth, shuts it, and turns away, curls onto his pillow. He lets out his breath and draws a hand over his face, wishes Castiel would make an appearance. _Please_ he begs, not sure who he's appealing to, _just for the night_.  
  
"These fucking dreams," Dean says, in way of apology to Rob, who probably had the shit scared out of him by Dean's desperate screaming. He's been thrown out of motels for it before. "They're driving me crazy."  
  
"I can't sleep, either," Rob says. Dean rolls his eyes; insomnia and vivid memories of hell aren't exactly comparable. Still, he's glad he's not alone.  
  
"I'm just used to, you know," Dean mutters. "With him."  
  
"Yes. I know."  
  
Dean lies down and turns onto his side, pulls the blankets up to his ear. There's no chance he'll sleep again soon, with his heart pounding like this, and he's glad, but staring into the darkness with the memories still fresh is almost as bad. He lets loose a staggered sigh, and when he hears Rob get out of bed he waits to see the bathroom light flick on, but the room stays dark. Rob goes quiet, and then suddenly he's sitting on the edge of Dean's bed, very gingerly, as if he thinks Dean has fallen asleep again already. Dean shuts his eyes, pretends that he has.   
  
"Dean?" Rob whispers. He starts to lean down, stops, and Dean _aches_ at the thought that he'll go back to his own bed, so badly that he almost laughs at himself. He's desperate for just the smell of Castiel's vessel, which might help him sleep a little, just for a few precious minutes.  
  
He stays perfectly still when Rob finally slips an arm around his side and puts his head on the pillow beside his. He can feel Rob's breath on the back of his neck, and it's not as soft and measured as Castiel's, but it's good, still good. Rob pulls the comforter up over both of them, and Dean involuntarily wiggles back against him, then feels like he should say something, his cover blown.   
  
"Fine," he mumbles, as if his consent is really required. Rob says nothing, just ducks his head down closer to Dean's shoulder. The heat of his body is different without Castiel occupying it, and he doesn't envelope Dean like a welcome sedative, just lies there with his heart beating fast against Dean's back, keeping him awake.  
  
*  
  
At some point Dean is able to sleep, and he wakes up feeling sore and lazy, rolls over to stuff his face in Rob's sweatshirt and drifts off again. It's almost noon by the time he finally lifts his head, and Rob is still drooling onto the pillow.   
  
"Hey," Dean says, tapping his shoulder. "Dude. Wake up." Again he feels uncomfortable, like he doesn't really know this person, just happens to be accustomed to sleeping with him. Rob blinks awake slowly, and looks up at Dean with a wince, as if he's the sun.   
  
"Dean," he says, his voice creaky and deeper than Dean has ever heard it on Castiel, who seems to be perpetually alert.   
  
"What?"  
  
"Nothing." Rob smiles a little and shuts his eyes. Dean reaches for him but then thinks better of it, flings himself out of bed instead.   
  
"We'd better get a move on," Dean says. "Or you had better, anyway."  
  
Rob sits up and looks at him glumly. Dean rolls his eyes and heads into the bathroom, washes his face with freezing water. He should have asked Castiel how long he'll have to be away -- or did Castiel tell him? A few days? Dean should know this. He feels like he's had an arm ripped off and he's running out of time to have it sewn back on. It's a familiar feeling. He's only got one arm left, after all, the other off cavorting with a demon Dean actually convinced himself to trust and even _like_ at one point, gullible ass that he is. He was willing to do anything to keep Sam with him, but recognizing that Ruby would do the same was what woke him up again. She only cares that she's with Sam the way she wants to be, doesn't give a shit how it wears on him. Dean has never allowed himself the same luxury; not with Sam, anyway. He loves his brother too much. It's what will always keep them apart.  
  
"Ready to go?" Dean asks when he emerges from the bathroom. Rob is dressed in his original clothes, the ones he was wearing when Castiel first came to him. They look sloppier and more pathetic on him.   
  
"I could use something to eat first," Rob says. "It's almost lunchtime."  
  
"Quit stalling!" Dean shouts. "For God's sake. They're not going to attack you. They love you, they want to see you."  
  
"It's not that simple," Rob says. "And you know it."  
  
"Don't tell me what I know!" Dean is starving and irritable and needs to get out of this room.  
  
"I do know you," Rob says, wilting a bit. "I've been with you --"  
  
"Castiel has," Dean says. "Not you. So don't -- just don't." He pushes past Rob and out of the room, and the cold outside shocks him. The sun is out, bright in the cloudless sky, but the cold is so bitter he can't move for a moment. He hears Rob leave the room and walk up behind him, his feet crunching over the melted slush in the parking lot.   
  
"Fine," Rob says. "Just give me a ride."  
  
*  
  
Rob's house looks more cheerful in the light of day, though it's still small and in need of a paint job, possibly also a new roof. Dean walks behind him to the door, begrudging the story they came up with to account for his presence. If Castiel were around, he'd probably tell Dean that Rob needs to face his family alone. It's certainly what Dean wants to tell him, but he's associated Rob's sad sack face too closely with Castiel, and he couldn't tell Castiel no if he looked at him that way, pleading and chewing his lip. As if Castiel ever would.   
  
"Go ahead," Dean says when they're standing on the front stoop. The house is quiet, but Dean can hear a clunking sound coming from somewhere inside, like a washing machine or a dishwasher running. Rob reaches for the bell and Dean slaps his hand away.  
  
"You don't have to ring the doorbell at your own damn house!" he snaps. Rob's nervousness is rubbing off on him, and he doesn't like it.   
  
"Castiel only allowed me to write one letter," Rob says. He's sweating across his upper lip, though it's freezing outside.   
  
"Really?" Dean scoffs. "I wonder if it was you or Castiel making that decision."  
  
"There was no time," Rob mumbles. Dean groans and reaches past him to knock twice before trying the door handle. It's not locked, so he pulls it open and shoves Rob into the house, wielding him like a shield.  
  
The inside of the house is warm but dimly lit, the large front room decorated for Christmas. There is a small tree in the corner covered with mostly homemade ornaments, a paper chain and a strand of popcorn and cranberries criss-crossing the colored lights. There are candles on the mantle and stickers shaped like snowflakes on the windows. Rob looks around the place and lets out his breath. Dean feels sorry for him suddenly, and reaches to touch the small of his back, but a woman walks into the room before he can, and he drops his hand back to his side.   
  
The woman gasps and slaps both hands to her mouth, her eyes going wide. She's short and delicate with messy hair half-pulled into a ponytail. Her denim jumper and white turtleneck make her look like a girl, but she's got lines around her eyes.  
  
"Honey," Rob says, and it sounds so flat that Dean almost kicks him.   
  
"What – what," is all the woman can manage to say before she flies across the room and throws her arms around Rob. She spots Dean over his shoulder and wipes at her eyes, sniffles and steps back.   
  
"Robert," she says, her face changing quickly. "Where the hell have you been?"  
  
Rob just stares at her, and Dean is afraid he'll try to tell her the truth. He puts on his best insurance company rep smile and steps forward, offers his hand. Rob's wife glares at him.   
  
"It's my fault, ma'am," Dean says. "My name is Dean. I'm Rob's half-brother."   
  
It was the first story Dean came up, and the irony didn't strike him until it was too late.   
  
"I'm Bonnie," Rob's wife says tightly. "I don't suppose my husband mentioned me."  
  
"Of course he did!" Dean says, and he glances at Rob, but he still seems to be frozen in place. Dean wonders for a moment if Castiel has come back, but Rob isn't slouching the way Castiel does.   
  
"I didn't know he had a – half-brother," Bonnie says, like she already doubts this is true. She's looking at Dean like he's the other woman, and Dean wonders how often and enthusiastically Rob talked to her about his 'friend' at work.   
  
"Daddy?" someone shrieks from a hallway that leads to the back of the house, and Dean looks up to see two skinny girls staring at Rob in shock. Dean prays that Rob won't baulk like he did with his wife, and he lets out his breath in relief when Rob laughs in happy surprise and sinks to the floor so that his daughters can embrace him. One looks to be about seven, with glasses and messy brown hair like her mother, and the other maybe nine or ten, pretty and blue-eyed like her father.   
  
"You're back!" the older girl says with a smile, and she turns to Bonnie. "Mom!" she says, as if she's waiting for her to join in. Bonnie puts on a happy face, but even the girls don't seem to buy it.   
  
"What's wrong?" the older girl asks when she turns back to her father. Rob is red-eyed, stroking her hair, his younger daughter hugged to his side.   
  
"I can't stay," Rob says, his voice barely functional. "I'm just here for Christmas, okay?"  
  
The girls look to their mother as if to confirm this. She stares at Rob, then at Dean. The girls look up at him as if they've just noticed he's there.   
  
"Hey," Dean says, backing toward the door. "Maybe I'll --"  
  
"Girls, this is your uncle," Rob says in a rush, not bothering to mention Dean's name. He looks up at his wife. "He was in trouble. That's why I had to go away. He – still is."   
  
"What sort of trouble?" Bonnie asks. She bends down to pull her younger daughter from Rob's side.   
  
"It's a long story," Dean says before Rob can open his mouth. "Look, maybe I should go."  
  
"Yes, I think you should," Bonnie snaps as Rob turns to look at Dean like he's just stabbed him in the back. Dean leaves anyway, gets out the door as quickly as he can and goes to sit in his car. Just the smell of the interior and the shape of the steering wheel calm him down. He looks back to the house, not sure why that affected him so much. He's practically hyperventilating.   
  
He stays in the car and keeps an eye on the house, turns the heat on when he can't take the cold anymore. When Rob finally emerges several hours later with an old green suitcase in his hand, Dean has his shades on and is listening to Holy Diver. He rolls the window down as Rob approaches. His eyes are bloodshot and he looks like he's going to throw up.   
  
"Can I get in?" he asks.  
  
"Shouldn't you be in there?" Dean asks. "Until, uh, Christmas is over? Or something?" Dean is never sure how any of this shit works when Castiel isn't around. It's been awhile since he had to do anything without him.   
  
"She threw me out," Rob says. "She thinks you're. You know."  
  
"What?"   
  
"My boyfriend," Rob mumbles. "Or whatever."   
  
Dean scoffs as if this is ridiculous. "Get in," he says, flicking his head toward the passenger seat. Rob jogs around to the other side of the car like he's afraid Dean will change his mind and peel away if he waits too long to take him up on his offer.  
  
They drive back toward the motel, and Dean stops at the first fast food establishment he sees. It's almost four o'clock in the afternoon and he's starving, orders four burgers and mega-sized french fries, milkshakes and a piece of plastic "pie" with gummy apple filling. They eat in the parking lot like they're on a stakeout. Rob is listless and Dean is frantic, eating fries in handfuls.   
  
"So," Dean says when he's sucked down the last of his milkshake. "That went well. Clearly."  
  
"Please," Rob says, staring down at his lap, so Dean doesn't say anymore. He drives back to the motel.   
  
"Why don't we just leave?" Rob asks as they walk toward the room.   
  
"Because." Dean unlocks the door, already pulling off his coat. He can't wait to get in the shower and stand under an endless supply of hot water until he's half-asleep. "I don't think you've done what the angel wanted you to do yet."  
  
"And what was that, exactly?" Rob asks, following him into the room. He watches Dean unbuckle his pants and push them down. Dean looks up and sees the color coming back to his cheeks.  
  
"Give those poor kids a decent holiday with their dad," Dean says. "Tonight's Christmas Eve. If you need a little break from the wrath of your wife, that's fine, but you've got to, you know, persevere."   
  
"I'm a horrible person," Rob says, dropping to the bed. Dean takes his shirt off, but even that doesn't distract Rob from his self-pity. "I wouldn't be surprised if the angel never comes back to me."   
  
"Join the club," Dean says, and Rob looks up at him with that wounded expression that Dean is getting really tired of, though it still makes him feel like an asshole every time. "I only mean I feel the same way," he explains. "Like I don't deserve any breaks."  
  
"What are you talking about?" Rob asks. "You haven't done anything wrong."  
  
"Um, where the hell have you been? Just for starters, I've seduced an angel and he's getting weaker by the freaking day, but that hasn't stopped me yet."  
  
Rob frowns. "He's not getting weaker."  
  
"How would you know?"  
  
"I'd know, Dean. And believe me, having sex with someone who loves you is hardly on the same scale as abandoning your children."   
  
"You haven't abandoned them," Dean mumbles, and then he realizes he's standing naked in the middle of the room. "Jesus," he says, covering his crotch with his hands. "Sorry."   
  
"It's okay," Rob says, turning away. "I know you forget. I'm supposed to be him. Believe me, I wish I was, too."  
  
Dean doesn't know what to say, so he only walks into the bathroom. He leaves the door open, figures there's no point in shutting it now. When the water in the shower begins to steam, he climbs under it and exhales in relief, though he's still tense and jumpy. Something is missing. Something is not right. He tells himself that it's just Castiel, he wants Castiel back, and it's his first Christmas without Sam in awhile. He thinks about last year, the Christmas before he went to hell.   
  
Hell creeps in on him quick, and he yanks his eyes open, lets out a panicked breath. His heart is racing, but hell can't have him yet. He's awake, and not alone. Rob is out there in the room. No, he's standing in the bathroom doorway.  
  
"Dean?" he says, and his voice fills the room like light in the night sky, clearing the clouds.  
  
"Yeah?" Dean says, struggling not to give anything away, not sure why except that it's his default, and he never lets his guard down except with Castiel, but this is not him, not the same, he can't forget.   
  
"Nothing – I thought I heard you call my name."   
  
"Well. I didn't." Dean isn't sure this is true, and he draws back the shower curtain when Rob starts to leave. He turns back and meets Dean's eyes, and for the first time, Dean doesn't see the angel at all.   
  
"You need something?" Rob asks, his voice careful and quiet, almost inaudible under the sound of the water.   
  
"I don't know," Dean answers honestly, and when his voice breaks Rob takes that like an invitation, and Dean is grateful as hell for the fact that Rob does know him, that he really has been here all along. He climbs into the shower with his stupid shirt and tie and pants and socks still on, and Dean helps him pull them off as the water soaks them under his hands, throws one after the other over the shower curtain while Rob kisses his face, spraying water into his eyes and making him blind. But Dean knows him, too, knows his body better than anything and maybe the rest of him, too, and he can do this with his eyes closed if he has to.  
  
"God," Rob says when his wet clothes are gone. "It's my fault, it's me."   
  
"What?" Dean's hands are running in crazy paths over Rob's slick skin, which feels so different without an angel underneath, not like a tonic or a daydream. Rob feels like something that could belong to him.  
  
"I'm the one," Rob breathes, bucking into Dean's grip when he takes the familiar heat of his cock into his hand. "I need you. If anyone is making him weak, it's me."   
  
"He wouldn't," Dean huffs, not sure how he feels about this. "He wouldn't allow anything like that. So shut up, okay, just shut up?"  
  
Rob nods, leans against the wall of the shower and spreads himself open for Dean's hands. Dean is sort of sobbing, not sure why, but it's easy to hide under the water, and he bites Rob's shoulder when he comes, leaves behind a mark of his own. They both recover slowly, panting onto each other, and Dean doesn't experience the crushing guilt that always follows any sort of physical communion with Castiel. He clings and moans against Rob's skin, likes the way Rob holds him around the waist, likes the scratch of his stubble and the clumsy way he's standing on Dean's left foot.  
  
"I did pray for you," Rob says, squeezing the back of Dean's neck. "I'm just afraid I haven't earned it. Why should my prayer be answered?"  
  
Dean releases him and ducks down to turn the shower off. When he straightens Rob is still slumped against the shower wall, his lips fat and pink, his hair wrecked and his skin red in spots, from the water, from the crush of Dean's mouth.   
  
"Maybe I wanted the same thing," Dean says. "Maybe it was just a good match. Good timing. I don't know. But I do think it's good. I don't know that it is, but I want it to be."   
  
They walk over Rob's damp clothes and back into the room, which feels ice cold now. Dean rips all of the blankets off of Rob's bed and dumps them onto his, then pulls Rob down underneath them. It's already grown dark outside, and Dean feels full and content, ready for bed at five o'clock in the evening.   
  
"Christmas Eve," Rob mutters against Dean's forehead as he's drifting off.   
  
"Yep," Dean says, not sure what he wants to hear.   
  
"I wish there were two of me," Rob says. "One that they could keep. I do want to be with them. But I, I --"  
  
"You don't have to explain," Dean says, thinking of Sam. "I know."   
  
Rob pulls him in closer. He feels so small without Castiel inside him.   
  
"I know you know," he says.  
  
Dean sleeps, doesn't dream. He wakes up hungry around midnight, and squirms out of Rob's grip, drinks a beer at the room's front window, naked with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He pulls back the curtain just a bit, watches a light dusting of snow fall onto the damp parking lot. He's not sure what he's looking for, who might come through the snow to the door. The world could end anytime. He turns back to the bed, where Rob is still asleep, and finally understands, for a brief, hazy moment, what the fuck is going on here.   
  
Castiel will be back, but he won't stay. It was never an option. He brought Dean someone to keep the nightmares away when he's gone. He could have pulled anyone out of hell; there were other selfless souls there, cleaner and better than what's become of Dean's. But Rob prayed for someone with a cocksucking mouth and a badass car and big green eyes, freckles across his nose, someone who could love him back. He was only praying to be saved, but the answer, somehow, was Dean.   
  
*  
  
The next morning, Rob knocks on his family's door and his wife allows him inside. He opens presents with his children and eats blueberry pancakes. Dean waits outside in the car, listens to the radio. All up and down the street, chimneys are pumping out smoke, and nobody comes or goes, everyone inside with their families, what's left of them or whatever they can scrape together, and it feels like a cease fire.  
  
He's listening to Christmas music, which he hates, when the passenger side door opens. He sits up to flip the station, but it's too late. Sam heard "The Little Drummer Boy." Dean can see it on his face. But, wait.   
  
"Sam?" he says in a shout, and it feels so good just to say his brother's name. Sam is grinning like all is right with the world, and Dean figures he's got to be dreaming, though his fingers are still burning with the cold his car's heater can't quite keep up with. He looks around for Ruby, but Sam is alone, and holding a deliciously greasy-looking McDonald's bag.  
  
"I thought you might be hungry," Sam says, and the sound of his voice makes Dean choke up a laugh that may have originated as a sob.  
  
"How," he stutters. "How?"  
  
"Let's just say someone is looking out for you." Sam reaches into the bag to fish out an Egg McMuffin, as if to demonstrate. He raises an eyebrow when Dean hesitates. "I can eat them myself if you're on a diet or something," he says, and Dean snatches it out of his hand, beams at him.   
  
"Sammy," he says, with a mouth full of rubbery egg. "Jesus Christ."  
  
"First I'm the antichrist, now I'm Jesus?" Sam says, digging into the bag for a hashbrown. Dean punches his shoulder.  
  
"I never called you the antichrist."  
  
Sam shrugs. "Not in so many words," he says, and Dean is thrilled with the opportunity to punch him again.   
  
"Seriously, man," he says, stealing the hashbrown. "How did you get here? Are you fucking teleporting now?" he asks, a nervous fear pricking into him. Sam snorts.  
  
"It's called a car," he says, gesturing at a blue sedan parked fifty feet behind Dean's. "You're not the only one who has one."   
  
"Don't tell me you bought that piece – that, uh – automobile."   
  
Sam rolls his eyes. "It gets good gas mileage."   
  
"Well, I guess that's a priority when you're tracking the apocalypse."   
  
"I guess so."   
  
They stare at each other for a minute, and decide to throw their arms around each other at the same moment, which makes for an unfortunate meeting of their foreheads. They both sit back and curse.  
  
"Wanna try that again?" Sam asks, still wincing.  
  
"See." Dean shakes his head. "Now you've gone and made the moment all chick flicky."   
  
"Dean." Sam lets loose one of his haughty scoffs, another thing Dean never thought he could miss. "You've been touched by an angel, okay? I think it's time to accept the chick flicky elements of your life."  
  
Dean punches him, then hugs him, probably for too long, but he knows this cease fire won't last. Sam turns the Christmas music back on, and Dean protests but lets him listen to horrible jingles that were never really a part of their childhood, though they know them well enough from the loudspeaker systems of convenience stores and truck stops.  
  
"So where's Castiel?" Sam asks as they eat their McBreakfast.   
  
"Long story," Dean says. "How about Ruby?"  
  
"Yeah," Sam says. "Long story."   
  
"It was Castiel who told you how to find me, wasn't it?" Dean asks.  
  
"You're so sure it wasn't Ruby?" Sam says, and Dean punches him. He leaves his hand on Sam's shoulder, squeezes.   
  
"Doesn't matter if the Easter Bunny told you where I was," Dean says. "I'm glad you came."  
  
"Me too," Sam says. He puts his wibbly face on, and Dean would pinch his cheek, but his fingers are greasy from the food.   
  
"We're gonna be okay, Sammy," Dean says. "That's my new theory."   
  
Sam smiles sadly and doesn't pretend to agree. He leaves after an hour, says he has to get to Boston and see about a demon. Dean doesn't ask if he's talking about Ruby. He walks Sam to his car and withholds further comments on its lameness, hugs him hard before he goes.   
  
"Merry Christmas, anyway," Dean says.   
  
"Oh, yeah." Sam laughs. "That's today, isn't it?"  
  
Dean watches him drive away. He forgets, every time, how it feels like being cut in half. There are footsteps in the snow behind him, and he turns to see Rob coming toward him. But no, it's not Rob.  
  
"You're back," he says, and Castiel nods.   
  
"You saw your brother," he says.   
  
"Yeah. Thanks for that."   
  
"You think I was responsible?"  
  
Dean sighs. He walks forward and puts his arms around Castiel's shoulders, pulls him in close. He thinks about Rob, in there somewhere, needing this in a way the angel never will.   
  
"I'm glad you're back," he says. Castiel says nothing, just touches the back of Dean's head, presses their cheeks together.   
  
"You worry so much, Dean," he says. "Even with God's grace all around you."   
  
"Yeah, well." Dean pulls back, pats Castiel's—Rob's—cheek. "Did he do okay in there?" he asks. He looks into Castiel's—Rob's?—eyes, tries to separate the vessel from the angel. The overwhelming sensation of Castiel's touch is all over him, lifting him off the ground.   
  
"I don't know," Castiel says. "I returned to him as he was leaving. I'm sure he did fine. Thank you for watching out for him."   
  
"Sure thing." Dean narrows his eyes. "So – you don't know anything about what – happened, when you were gone?" He feels strange, like he was cheating. It's almost hilarious.   
  
Castiel smiles, and Dean can't see the seams anymore, isn't sure if it's the angel or the man looking amused and tired, lightly touching Dean's jaw.   
  
"I am privy to all of my vessel's memories, of course," he says. Dean squares his shoulders.   
  
"Uh." He's not sure if anything needs to be said. "So what should we do? Does evil take a break on Christmas? Not in my experience, but with your particular brand of enemies, I'm not sure. Anyway, I think the movie theaters are open."   
  
"We could go to church," Castiel says. Dean groans, and there it is again, that smile that Dean can't pick apart. It's Rob, but not quite. It's both of them, somehow. Of course it is.   
  
"Alright," Castiel consents as they head toward the car. "I wouldn't mind going to a restaurant, if any are open, but you've just eaten, haven't you?"  
  
"Oh, I could eat," Dean says. "No problem. Hey, how about Chinese? It'll be just like _A Christmas Story_ , only, you know. Not like that at all. Unless you brought me a new gun for Christmas."  
  
"I haven't brought you any gifts," Castiel says. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, Dean, but you're not actually the Second Coming."   
  
"Dude." Dean makes a face, climbs into the car. "So not funny. I gotta admit, demons totally have an edge on angels when it comes to a sense of humor."   
  
Castiel climbs in beside him, still smiling. Rob said that Dean had been having sex with someone who loved him. Whatever Dean now feels for Castiel's vessel, the hope for their future that is slowly building in him, he's happy, maybe vainly, to think that Castiel missed him, that he hurried back.   
  
"Good to be on earth again?" Dean asks as the Impala roars down the road. Castiel folds his hands in his lap and smiles in the way Dean recognizes as purely angelic, wistful and restrained.   
  
"Yes, Dean," he says. "It is good."


End file.
